Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at|http: //books .google .com/I

PROPBRTY OP THB

IVilCnlijii/i'gl

Muries^

t 8 » 7

ARTES SCIENTIA VERITAS

/

n

•

A 9 5:5. .i^

/Q92.

I

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

BT

JANE AUSTEN

NEW YORK
THE ATHENAEUM SOCIETT

» w

By Roberts Brothers.

I

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

PART FIRST

iS

i

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

CHAPTER I.

i family of Dashwood had been long
settled in Sossex. Their estate was
large, and their residence was at ^oi-
luid Farb, in the centre of their property, where
for many generations they had lived in so respect-
able a manner as to engaf^e the general good opinion
<tf their surrounding ocqu^-mtance. The late owner
of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very
advanced age, and who for many years of his life
had a constant companion and housekeeper in his
sister. But her death, which happened ten years
before his own, produced a great alteration in his
home; for to supply her loss be invited and received
into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Heniy
Dasbwood, the legal inheritor of the Borland estat«,
and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it.

6 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

In the society of his nephew and niece, and their
children; the old gentleman's days were comfortably
spent. His attachment to them all increased. The
constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dash-
wood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely
from inte 3st, but from goodness of heart, gave him
every degree of solid comfort which his age could
receive ; and the cheerfulness of the children added
a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had
one son; by his present lady, three daughters. The
son, a steady, respectable young man, was amply
provided for by the fortune of his mother, which
had been large, and half of which devolved on him
on his coming of age. By his own marriage, like-
wise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to
his wealth. To him, therefore, the succession to
the Norland estate was not so really important as
to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of
what might arise to them from their father's in-
heriting that property, could be but small. Their
mother had nothing, and their father only seven
thousand pounds in his own disposal ; for the re-
maining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also
secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest
in it.

(The old gentleman died: his will was read; and,
like almost every other will, gave as much disap-
pointment as pleasure^^ He was neither so unjust

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 7

nor so ungrateful as to leave his estate from his
nephew; but he left it to him on such terms as
destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr.
Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of
his wife and daughters than for himself or his son ;
but to his son, and his son's son^ a cbUd of four
years old, it was secured, in such a way as to leave
to himself no power of providing for those who
were most dear to him, and who most needed a
provision, by any charge on the estate, or by any
sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up
for the benefit of this child, who in occasional
visits with his father and mother at Norland had
so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such
attractions as are by no means unusual in children
of two or three years old, — an imperfect articula-
tion, an earnest desire of having his own way,
many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, —
as to outweigh all the value of all the attention
which for years he had received from his niece
and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind,
however, and, as a mark of his affection for the
three girls, he left them a thousand pounds apiece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was at first
severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine,
and he might reasonably hope to live many years,
and by living economically, lay by a considerable
sum from the produce of an estate already large,
and capable of almost immediate improvement.

i^

8 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

But the fortune^ wHcli had been so tardy in com-
ing, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived
his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, in*
eluding the late legacies, was all that remained for
his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was
known; and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended,
with all the strength and urgency which illness
could command, the interest of his mother-in-law
and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings
of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a
recommendation of such a nature at such a time,
and he promised to do everything in his power to
make them comfortable. His father was rendered
easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood
had then leisure to consider how much there might
prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to
be rather cold-hearted and rather selfish is to be
ill-disposed; but he was, in general, well respected,
for he conducted himself with propriety in the dis-
charge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a
more amiable woman, he might have been made
still more respectable than he was ; he might even
have been made amiable himself, for he was very
young when he married, and very fond of his wife.
But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature
of himself, — more narrow-minded and selfish.

f }

SENSE AKB SENSIBILITY. 9

When he j^are his promise to his father^ he medi-
tated within himself to increase the fortunes of his
sisters by the present of a thousand pounds apiece.
He then really thought himself equal to it. The
prospect of four thousand a year, in addition to his
present income, besides the remaining half of his
own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made
him feel capable of generosity. "Yes, he would
give them three thousand pounds ; it would be lib-
eral and handsome I It would be enough to make
them completely easy. Three thousand pounds ! he
could spare so considerable a sum with little incon-
venience." He thought of it all day long, and for
many days successively, and he did not repent.

Ko sooner was his father's funeral over than Mrs.
John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her
intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her
child and their attendants. Ko one could dispute
her right to come; the house was her husband's
from the moment of his father's decease; but the
indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater,
and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with
only common feelings, must have been highly un-
pleasing^But in her mind there was ajsense of
honor so Keen, a generosity so romantic, that any
offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or re-
ceived, was to her a source of immovable disgusO
Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favorite
with any of her }ycisband's family; but she had had

/

t

I

I

{

Ci

10 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

no opportunity, till the present, of showing them
with how little attention to the comfort of other
people she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dash wood feel this ungra-
cious behavior, and so earnestly did she despise
her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of
the latter, she would have quitted the house for-
ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl in-
duced her first to reflect on the propriety of going,
and her own tender love for all her three children
determined her afterwards to stay, and for their
sakes avoid a breach with their brother.

_^Eliaor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so
effectual, possessed a strength of understanding
and coolness of judgment which qualified her,
though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her
mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract,
to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of
mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have
led to imprudence. CJShe had an excellent heart;
her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings
were strong, but she knew how to govern them.\
It was a knowledge which her mother had yet to
learn, and which one of her sisters had resolved
never to be taught.

Ma^ianne^s abilities were, in many respects, quite
equal to Elinor's. She wassensible and clever, but
eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could
have no moderation. She was generous, amiable,

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 11

interesting; she was everything but prudent. The
resemblance between her and her mother was strik-
ingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of_her
sister ^s sensibility; but by Mrs. Dash wood it was
valued and cherished. They encouraged each other
now in the violence of their affliction. The agony
of grief which overpowered them at first was volun-
tarily renewed, was sought for^ was created again
and again. They gave themselves up wholly to
their sorrow^ seeking increase of wretchedness in
every reflection that could afford it, and resolved
against ever admitting consolation in future.
Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she
could struggle, she could exert herself. She could
consult with her brother; could receive her sister-
in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper
attention; and could strive to rouse her mother
to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar
forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored,
well-disposed girl ; but as she had already imbibed
a good deal of Marianne's romance wil;hout baling
mucE"5nier sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair
to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of
life.

CHAPTER n.

Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mis-
tress of Norland; and her mother and sisters in law
were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such,
however, they were treated by her with quiet civil-
ity; and by her husband with as much kindness as
he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his
wife, and their child. He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their
home ; and as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs.
Dashwood as remaining there till she could accom-
modate herself with a house in the neighborhood*
his invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything re-
minded her of former delight was exactly what
suited her mind, ^h seasons of cheerfulness no
temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess
in a greater degree that sanguine expectation of
\pi happiness which is happiness itself; but in sorrow
^ she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and

as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was
beyond alloy^

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of
what her husband intended to do for his sisters.

8EN8E AND SENSIBILITT. 13

To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of
their dear little boy would be impoverishing him
to the most dreadful degree. She begged him to
think again on the subject. How could he answer
it to himself to rob his child, and his only child
too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim
could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him
only by half bloody which she considered as no
relationship at all, have on his generosity to so
large an amouat? It was very well known that no
affection was ever supposed to exist between the
children of any man by different marriages; and
why was he to ruin himself and their poor little
Harry by giving away all his money to his half-
sisters?

** It was my father's last request to me/' replied
her husband, ''that I should assist his widow and
daughters.''

''He did not know what he was talking of, I
dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the
time. Had he been in his right senses, he could
not have thought of such a thing as begging you
to give away half your fortune from your own
child."

" He did not stipulate for any particular sum^
my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in general
terms, to assist them, and make their situation
more comfortable than it was in his power to do.
Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left

14 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I
should neglect them. But as he required the prom-
ise^ I could not do less than give it; at least, I
thought so at the time. The promise therefore
was given, and must be performed. Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland
and settle in a new home.^' '

^^Well, then, let something be done for them;
but that something need not be three thousand
pounds. Consider," she added^ ^^that when the
money is once parted with, it never can return.
Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for-
ever. If, indeed, it could ever be restored to our
poor little boy — "

"Why, to be sure,'^ said her husband, very
gravely, "that would make a great difference.
The time may come when Harry will regret that
so large a sum was parted with. If he should
have a numerous family, for instance, it would be
a very convenient addition."

"To be sure it would."

"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all
parties if the sum were diminished one half.
Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious in-
crease to their fortunes!"

"Oh, beyond anything, great! What brother
on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even
if really his sisters ! And as it is, — only half-
blood! But. you have such a generous spirit I ^'

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 15

*^I would not wish to do anything mean/' he
replied. ^T)ne had rather^ on such occasions^ do'
too much than too little. Ko one^ at leasts can
think I have not done enough for them^ even
themselves, they can hardly expect more.'^J

"There is no knowing what they may expect/'
said the ladyj "but we are not to think of their
expectations : the question is, what you can afford
to do."

"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give
them five hundred pounds apiece. As it is, with-
out any addition of mine, they will each have
above three thousand pounds on their mother's
death, — a very comfortable fortune for any young
woman."

"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me
that they can want no addition at all. They will
have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them.
If they marry, they will be sure of doing well ; and
if they do not, they may all live very comfortably
together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."

"That is very true, and thewfore I do not
know whether, upon the whole, it would not be
more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them, — something
of the annuity kind, I mean. My sisters would
feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A
hundred a year would make them all perfectly
comfortable." •

.»*

i<

wX

/

16 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

His wife hesitated a little^ however, in giving
her consent to this plan.

**To be sure/' said she, ^'it is better than
parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But
then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years,
we shall be completely taken in.''

'^ Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life can-
not be worth half that purchase.''

"Certainly not; but if you observe, people
always live forever when there is any annuity to
be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,
and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious
business; it comes over and over every year, and
there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware
of what you are doing. I have known a great
deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother
was clogged with the payment of three to old
superannuated servants by my father's will, and
it is amazing how disagreeable she found it.
Twice every year these annuities were to be paid;
and then there was the trouble of getting it to
them*; and then one of them was said to have died,
and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing.
My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was
not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims
on it; and it was the more unkind in my father,
because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any
restriction whatever. Xt has given me such an

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 17

abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would
not pin myself down to the payment of one for all
the world."

^^It is certainly an unpleasant thing/' replied
Mr. Dashwood, ^'to haye those kind of yearly
drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your
mother justly says, is not one's own. To be tied
down to the regular payment of such a sum on
efvery rent-day is by no means desirable; it takes
away one's independence."

"Undoubtedly; and, after all, you have no
thanks for it. They think themselves secure ; you
do no more than what is expected, and it raises no
gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did
should be done at my own discretion entirely. I
would not bind myself to allow them anything
yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years
to spare a hundred or even fifty pounds from our
own expenses. " '

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be .
better that there should be no annuity in the case:^-
whatever I may give them occasionally will be of
far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, be-
cause they would only enlarge their style of living
if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not
be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the
year. It will certainly be much the best way. f A
present of fifty pounds now and then will prevent
their ever being distressed for money, and will, I

VOL. L — 8

^

18 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

think, be amply discharging my promise to my
father^)

'^To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth,
I am convinced within myself that your father had
no idea of your giving them any money at all.
The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only
such as might be reasonably expected of you ; for
instance, such as looking out for a comfortable
small house for them, helping them to move their
things, and sending them presents of fish and
game, and so forth, whenever they are in season.
I'll lay my life that he meant nothing further;
indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable
if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dash-
wood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-
law and her daughters may live on the interest of
seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand
pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings
them in fifty pounds a year apiece, and of course
they will pay their mother for their board out of
it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a
year amongst them; and what on earth can four
women want for more than that ? They will live
so cheap ! Their housekeeping will be nothing at
all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and
hardly any servants; they will keep no company,
and can have no expenses of any kind! Only con-
ceive how comfortable they will be I Five hundred
a year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will

I

_#

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 19

spend half of -it; and as to your giving them more,
it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be
much more able to give you something."

"Upon my word/' said ,Mr. Dashwood, " I be-
lieve you are perfectly right. My father certainly
could mean nothing more by his request to me
than what you say. I clearly understand it now^
and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such
acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
have described. When my mother removes into
another house, my services shall be readily given to
accommodate her as far as I can. Some little pres-
ent of furniture, tbo, may be acceptable then.''

"Certainly,'' returned Mrs. John Dashwood.
" Bu?L however, one thing must be considered.
When-your father and mother moved to Norland,
though. the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the
china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left
to your piother. Her house will therefore be
almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes
it."

"That is a material consideration undoubtedly.
A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the
plate would have been a very pleasant addition to
ourllBai stock here." *

" Ms; and the set of breakfast china is twice
as haT)dj¥ome ^ what belongs to this house; a
great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any
place they can ever afford to live in. But, how-

M I

20 SENSE AKD SENSIBILITY.

ever, so it is. Your father thought only of them.
And I must say this, that you owe no particular
gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes ; for
^ we very well tnow that if he could he would have
left almost everything in the world to them,^^

This argument was irresistihle. It gave to his
intentions whatever of decision was wanting he-
fore ; and he finally resolved that it would he ahsd-
lutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do
more for the widow and children of his father than
such kind of neighhorly acts as his own wife
pointed out.

I

1

I

CHAPTER m.

Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several
months^ not from any disinclination to move when
the sight of every well-known spot ceased to raise
the violent emotion which it produced for a while^
— for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind
became capable of some other exertion than that of
heightening its affliction by melancholy remem-
brances, she was impatient to be gone, and inde-
fatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling
in the neighborhood of Norland, for to remove far
from that beloved spot was impossible; but she
could hear of no situation that at once answered
her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the
prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
judgment rejected several houses^ as too large
for their income, which her mother would have
approved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her hus-
band of the solemn promise on the ptirt of his son ' ^ ^ ''
in their favor, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of
this assurance no more than he had doubted it
himself, and she thought of it for her daughters'
sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she

22 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

was persuaded that a much smaQler provision than
seven thousand pounds would support her in afflu-
ence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake
of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached
herself for being unjust to his merit before, in
believing him incapable of generosity. His at-
tentive behavior to herself and his sisters con-
vinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and
for a long time she firmly relied on the liberality
of his intentions.

The contempt which she had very early in their
acquaintance felt for her daughter-in-law was very
much increased by the further knowledge of her
character which half a year's residence in her
family afforded; and perhaps, in spite of every
consideration of politeness or maternal affection
on the side of the former, the two ladies might
have found it impossible to have lived together
so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred
to give still greater eligibility, according to the
opinions of Mrs. Dashwood^ to her daughters' con-
tinuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment
between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs.
John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing
young man, who was introduced to their acquaint-
ance soon after his sister's establishment at Nor-
land, and who had since spent the greatest part of
his time there*

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 28

Some m<^ther8 mi^lit bave enc«>tir»ged the in-
eimarv from motivea of intert^c, for E^l .vatd FerrajM
was the eldest son of a man who had died very
rich; ou-l somo miglit hare repressed it from
motives of prutU:T?c»>, ff>r, ex^'upt a trifling 8um,
^he whole of his fortune depended on -the will of
his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike unin-
fluenced by either consideration; it was enough
Cor her that he appeared to be amiable^ that he
loved her daughter^ and that Elinor returned the
partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of
hers that difference of fortune should keep any
couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance
of disposition; and that Elinor^s merit should not
be acknowledged by every one who knew her was
to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their
good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or
address. He was not handsome, and his manners
required intimacy to make them pleasing. He
was too diffident to do justice to himself; but
when his natural shyness was overcome, his be-
havior gave every indication of an open, affection-
ate heart. His understanding was good, and his
education had given it solid improvement. But
he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition
to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who
longed to see him distinguished as — they hardly
knew what. They wanted him to make a fin*

24 ' 8KN8E AND SENSIBILITY.

figure in the vf^ald. in some manner or other. Hi^
mother rushed to interest him in political con*
cemsi to get ! im into parliament^ or to see him
connected wit}] some of the great men of the day.
Mrs. John l>ashwood wished it likewise; hut in
the mean while, till one of these superior hlessingn
could he attained; it would have quieted her am-
bition to see him driving a barouche. But Edwar<l
had no turn for great men or barouches. All hi)
wishes centred in domestic comfort and the quiet
of private life. Fortunately, he had a younger
brother who was more promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the
house before he engaged much of Mrs. DashwOod'it
attention ; for she was at that time in such afflic*
tion as rendered her careless of surrounding objects ^
She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive,
and she liked him for it. He did not disturb th*^
wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
She was first called to observe and approve him
further by a reflection which Elinor chanced ont*.
day to make on the difference between him and his
sister. It was a contrast which recommended bin.
most forcibly to her mother.

''It is enough," said she; ''to say that he h
unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything
amiable. I love him already."

"I think you will like him," said Elinor,
•*whep you know more of him."

aENSE^AND SENSIBILITY. 26

''Like him! '' replied her mother^ with a smile.
'' I can feel ^o sentiment of approbation inferior
to love.''

"You may esteem him.''

'' I have never yet known what it was to sepa-
rate esteem and love."

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted
with him. Her manners were attaching, and soon
banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended
all his Iherits; the persuasion of his regard for
Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she
really felt assured of his worth, and even that
quietness of manner, which militated against all
her established ideas of what a young man's address
ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when
she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love
in his behavior to Elinor than she considered their
serious attachment as certain, and looked forward
to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

''In a few months, my dear Marianne," said
she, "Elinor will, in all probability, be settled
for life. We shall miss her, but she will be
happy."

" Oh, mamma, how shall we do without her? "

"My lo'^, it will be scarcely a separation; we
shall live within a few miles of each other, and
shall meet every day of our lives; you will gain

"1
9

26 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT,

a brother, — a real, affectionate brother. I have
the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart.
But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove
your sister's choice? ''

** Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider
it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable,
and I love him tenderly. But yet — he is not the
kind of young man; there is a something wanting,
— his figure is not striking; it has none of that
grace which I should expect in the man who could
seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all
that spirit, that fire, which at once announce
virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I
am afraid, mamma, he has no real taste. Music
seems scarcely to attract him; and though he ad-
mires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the
admiration of a person who can understand their
worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent
attention to her while she draws, that in fact he
knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a
lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those
characters must be united. I could not be happy
with a man whose taste did not in every point
coincide with my own. He must enter into all
my feelings; the same books, the same music,
must charm us both. Oh, mamma, how spiritless,
how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us
last night! I felt for my sister most severely.
Yet she bore it with so much composure, she

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 27

seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep
my seat. To hear those beautiful lines^ which
have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced
with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful
indifference! "

"He would certainly have done more justice to
simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the
time; but you would give him Cowper.'^

*^ Nay, mamma, if he is not to be animated by
Cowper! — but we must allow for difference of taste.
Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
may overlook it and be happy with him. But it
woul(y3ia,:Kfe.tokfifl .viipsi^e^^, l^d^ I lov^4..hijn, to
hear him read with so little 9,^.:^^il;ti]itj^ Mammajj
the more I know of the world the more am I con-*
vinced that I shall never see a man whom I caiA
really love. I require so much! He must have
all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners
must ornament his goodness with every possible
charm."

" Kemember, my love, that you are not seven-
teen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such
happiness. Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother? In one circumstance only, my
Marianne, may your destiny be different from
hersl"

\

CHAPTER IV.

"What a pity it is, Elinor/' said Marianne,
" that Edward should have no taste for drawing! "

*'!N"o taste for drawing! " replied Elinor; " why
should you think so? He does not draw himself,
indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people ; and I assure you he
is by no means deficient in natural taste, though
he has not had opportunities of improving it.
Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think
he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his
own judgment in such matters so much that he is
always unwilling to give his opinion on any pic-
ture ; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity
of taste, which, in general, direct him perfectly
right."

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no
more on the subject ; but the kind of approbation
which Elinor described as excited in him by the
drawings of other people was very far from that
rapturous delight which, in her opinion, could
alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within
herself at the mistake, she honored her sister for
that blind partiality to Edward which produced it«

1

SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT. 29

«I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, ''you
do not consider him as deficient in general taste.
Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot; for
your behavior to him is perfectly cordial, and if
that were your opinion, I am sure you could never
be civil to him."

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would
not wound the feelings of her sister on any account,
and yet to say what she did not believe was im*
possible. At length she replied, —

''Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of
him is not in everything equal to your sense of
his merits. I have not had so many opportuni-
ties of estimating the minuter propensities of his
mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have;
but I have the highest opinion in the world of
his goodness and sense. I think him everything
that is worthy and amiable."

''I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile,
''that his dearest friends could not be dissatis-
fied with such conimendation as that. I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more
warmly."

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily
pleased.

"Of his sense and his goodness," continued
Elinor, " no one can, I think, be in doubt, who
has seen him often enough to engage him in un-
reserved conversation. The excellence of his un-

30 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

derstanding and his principles can be concealed
only by that shyness which too often keeps him
silent. You know enough of him to do justice to
his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities^
as you call them, you have, from peculiar circum-
stances, been kept more ignorant than myself. He
and I have been at times thrown a good deal to-
gether^ while you have been wholly engrossed on
the most affectionate principle by my mother. I
have seen a great deal of him, hare studied his
sentiments, and heard his opinion on subjects of
literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I ven-
ture to pronounce that his mind is well informed,
his enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his ima-
gination lively, his observations just and correct,
and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in
every respect improve as much upon acquaintance
as his manners and person. At first sight, his
address is certainly not striking; and his person
can hardly be called handsome, till the expression
of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the
general sweetness of his countenance, are perceived.
At present I know him so well that I think him
really handsome, or, at least, almost so. What
say you, Marianne? "

'^I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor,
if I do not now. When you tell me to love him
as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in
his face than I now do in his heart. '^

J

SENSE ANI3 SS|r$IBILITY. 31

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sony
for the warmth she had been betrayed into in speak-
ing of him. She felt that Edward stood very high
in her opinion. She believed the regard to be
mutual; but she required greater certainty of it
to make Marianne's conviction of their attachment
agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne
and her mother conjectured one moment, they be-
lieved the next, — that with them, to wish was to
hope, and to hope was ^q fiyp^^*- She tried to
explain the real state of the case to her sister.

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, ''that I
Ihink very highly of him, — that I greatly esteem,
that I like him."

Marianne here burst forth with indignation, —

' ' Esteem him ! Like him I r!oTf1-hAfl.r^ft(^ TCliTinr I *
Oh, worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being
otherwise ! Use those words again, and I will leave
the room this moment."

Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me,''
said she; '' and be assured that I meant no offence
to you by speaking in so quiet a way of my own
feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have
declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his
merit and the suspicion — the hope — of his affection
for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
But further than this you must not believe. I am
by no means assured of his regard for me. There
are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful;

32 SENSE AND SENSIBILrTY.

and till his sentiments are fully known^ you can-
not wonder at my wishing to avoid any encourage*
ment of my own partiality^ by believing or calling
it more than it is. In my heart I feel little—-
scarcely any doubt, of his preference. But there
are other points to be considered besides his in-
clination. He is very far from being independent.
What his mother really is we cannot know; but,
from Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct
and opinions, we have never been disposed to think
her amiable ; and I am very much mistaken if
Edward is not himself aware that there would be
many difl&culties in his way, if he were to wish to
marry a woman who had not either a great fortune
or high rank."

Marianne was astonished to find how much the
imagination of her mother and herself had out-
stripped the truth.

"And you really are not engaged to him I " said
she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But
two advantages will proceed from this delay. /
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have
greater opportunity of improving that natural taste
for your favorite pursuit which must be so indis-
pensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh I if
he should be so far stimulated by your genius as
to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would
be!''

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister.

J

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 33

She could not consider her partiality for Edward
in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed
it. There was at times a want of spirits about /^
him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke
a something almost as unpromising. A doubt of
her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give
him more than inquietude. It would not be likely
to produce that dejection of mind which frequently
attended him. A more reasonable cause might be
found in the dependent situation which forbade the
indulgence of his affection. She knew that his
mother neither behaved to him so as to make his
home comfortable at present, nor to give him any
assurance that he might form a home for himself,
without strictly attending to her views for his ag-
grandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it
was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the sub-
ject. She was far from depending on that result
of his preference of her, which her mother and
sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer
they were together the more doubtful seemed the
nature of his regard j and sometimes, for a few
painful minutes, she believed it to be no more
than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was
enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her
uneasy, and at the same time (which was still more
common) to make her uncivil. She took the first
opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the

VOL. I. — S

34 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

occasion^ talking to her so expressively of her
hrother^s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's reso-
lution that both her sons should marry well, and
of the danger attending any young woman who
attempted to draw him in, that Mrs. Dashwood
could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor en-
deavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which
marked her contempt, and instantly left the room;
resolving that, whatever might be the inconven-
ience or expense of so sudden a removal, her be-
loved Elinor should not be exposed another week
to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits a letter was delivered
to her from the post, which contained a proposal
particularly well timed. It was the offer of a
small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a
relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence
and property in Devonshire. The letter was from
this gentleman himself, and written in the true
spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood
that she was in need of a dwelling; and though
the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
he assured her that everything should be done to
it which she might think necessary, if the situs
tion pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after
giving the particulars of the house and garden, to
come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place
of his own residence, from whence she might judge
herself whether Barton Cottage — for the houses

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 35

were in the same parish — cbuld by any alteration
be made comfortable for her. He seemed! really
anxious to accommodate them; and the whole of
his letter was written in so friendly a style as
could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin;
more .especially at a moment when she was suffer-
ing under the cold and unfeeling behavior of her
nearer connections. She needed no time for de-
liberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed
as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county
so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which
but a few hours before would have been a sufficient
objection to outweigh every possible advantage be-
longing to the place, was now its first recommen-
dation. To quit the neighborhood of Norland was
no longer an evil: it was an object of desire; it
was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of
continuing her daughter-in-law's guest: and to
remove forever from that beloved place would be
less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such
a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote
Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his
kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and
then hastened to show both letters to her daugh-
ters, that she might be secure of their approbation
before her answer were sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more
prudent for them to settle at some distance from
Norland than immediately amongst their present

M I

36 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

acquaintance. On thcU head, therefore, it was not
for her to oppose her mother's intention of remoT-
ing into Devonshire. The house, too, as described
t>y Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the
rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no
right of objection on either point; and therefore;
though it was not a plan which brought any
charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from
the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she
made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
sending a letter of acquiescence.

CHAPTEB V.

No sooner was her answer despatched) than Mrs.
Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of an-
nouncing to her son-in-law and his wife that she
was provided with a housed and should incommode
them no longer than tiiy everything were ready
for her inhabiting it. /They heard her with sur-
prise. Mrs. John I)ashwood said nothing; but
her husband civilly /noped that she would not be
settled far from !L^rland. She had great satis-

r

faction in replying that she was going into Dev-
onshire. Edward turned hastily towards her,
on hearing this, and in a voice of surprise and
concern, which required no explanation to her,
repeated: ^* Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going
there? So far from hence! and to what part of
it? '' She explained the situation. It was within
four miles northward of Exeter.

"It is but a cottage,'' she continued; "but I
hope to see many of my friends in it. A room or
two can easily be added; and if my friends find no
difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure
I will find none in accommodating them."

She concluded with a very kind invitation to
Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at

38 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still
greater affection. Though her late conversation
with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve
on remaining at Norland no longer than was
unavoidable^ it had not produced the smallest
effect on her in that point to which it principally
tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was aa
far from being her object as ever; and she wished
to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed
invitation to her brother, how totally she disre-
garded her disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and
again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had
taken a house at such a distance from Norland as
to prevent his being of any service to her in
removing her furniture. He really felt con-
scientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very
exertion to which he had limited the performance
of his promise to his father was by this arrange-
ment rendered impracticable. The furniture was
all sent round by water. It chiefly consisted of
household linen, plate, china, and books, with a
handsome pianoforte of Marianne^s. Mrs. John
Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh:
she could not help feeling it hard that, as Mrs.
Dashwood^s income would be so trifling in com-
parison with their own, she should have any hand-
some article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelve

SENSE AND SENSIBILITy. 39

month; it was ready furnislied^ and she might
have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on
either side in the agreement ; and she waited only
for the disposal of her effects at Norland, and to
determine her future household, before she set off
for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly
rapid in the performance of everything that in
terested her, was soon done. The horses which
were left her by her husband had been sold soon
after his death, and an opportunity now offering of
disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that
likewise, at the earnest advice of her eldest
daughter. For the comfort of her children, had
she consulted only her own wishes^ she would
have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor pre-
vailed. Her wisdom, too, limited the number of
their servants to three, — two maids and a man,
with whom they were speedily provided from
amongst those who had formed their establish-
ment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off
immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the house
for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady Middle-
ton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she
preferred going directly to the cottage to being
a visitor at Barton Park ; and she relied so un-
doubtingly on Sir John's description of the house
as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till
she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to be

40 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

gone from Norland was preserved from diminution
by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law
in the prospect of her removal, — a satisfaction
which was hut feebly attempted to be concealed
under a cold invitation to her to defer her de-
parture. Now was the time when her son-in-
law's promise to his father might with particular
propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected
to do it on first coming to the estate, their quit-
ting his house might be looked on as the most
suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.
Dashwood began, shortly, to give over every hope
of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general
drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended
no further than their maintenance for six months
at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increas-
ing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual
demands upon his purse, which a man of any
consequence in the world was beyond calculation
exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in
need of more money himself than to have any
design of giving money away.

In a very few weeks from the day which brought
Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland, every-
thing was so far settled in their future abode
as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters
to begin their journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last
adieus to a place so much beloved. '' Dear, dear

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 41

Norland! " said Marianne, as she wandered alone
before the house, on the last evening of their being
there; " when shall I cease to regret you, when
learn to feel a home elsewhere ! Oh, happy house,
could you know what I suffer in now viewing you
from this spot, from whence, perhaps, I may view
you no more ! And you, ye well-known trees ! —
but you will continue the same. Ko leaf will
decay because we are removed, nor any branch
become motionless although we can observe you no
longer! No; you will continue the same, uncon-
scious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion,
and insensible of any change in those who walk
under your shade I But who will remain to enjoy
you? ''

CHAPTER VI.

The first part of their journey^ was performed in
too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than
tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards
the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their
dejection, and a view of Barton Valley, as they
entered it, gave them cheerfulness. It was a
pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in
pasture. After winding along it for more than a
mile, they reached their own house. A small
green court was the whole of its demesne in front;
and a neat wicket-gate admitted them into it.

As a house. Barton Cottage, though small, was
comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was
defective, for the building was regular, the roof
was tiled, the window-shutters were not painted
green, nor were the walls covered with honey-
sucklepi. A narrow passage led directly through
the house into the garden behind. On each side
of the entrance was a sitting-room, about sixteen
feet square; and beyond them were the offices and
the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed
the rest of the house. It had not been built many

gENSS AKB SENSIBILnT. 43 U v;"

years, and was in good repair. In comparison of
Norland, it was poor and small indeed; but the
tears wbich recollection called forth as they
entered the house were soon dried away. They
were cheered by the joy of the servants on their
arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved
to appear happy. It was very early in September;
the season was fine; and from first seeing the
place under the advantage of good weather, they
received an impression in its favor which was
of material service in recommending it to their
lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good. High
hills rose immediately behind, and at no great
distance on each side; some of which were open
downs, the others cultivated and woody. The
village of Barton was chiefiy on one of these hills,
and formed a pleasant view from the cottage win-
dows. The prospect in front was more extensive;
it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached
into the country beyond. The hills which sur-
rounded the cottage terminated the valley in that
direction; under another name, and in another
course, it branched out again between two of the
steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs.
Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for
though her former style of life rendered many
additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add

44 SENSE AND SENSIBILnr.

and improve was a delight to her; and she had at
this time ready money enough to supply all that
was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.
^* As for the house itself, to be sure/* said she, " it
is too small for our family, but we will make our-
aelves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it
is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps
in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare
say I shall, we may think about building. These
parlors are both too small for such parties of our
friends as I hope to see often collected here; and
I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into
one of them, with perhaps a part of the other, and
so leave the remainder of that other for an en-
trance ; this, with a new drawing-room which may
be easily added, and a bedchamber and garret above,
will make it a very snug little cottage. I could
wish the stairs were handsome. But one must not
expect everything; though I suppose it would be
no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see
how much I am beforehand with the world in
the spring, and we will plan our improvements
accordingly."

In the mean time, till all these alterations could
be made from the savings of an income of five
hcindred a year by a woman who never saved in
^v^her life, they were wise enough to be contented
with the house as it was ; and each of them was
busy in arranging their particular concerns, and

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. i^

andeavoring, by placing around them their bcK>k8
and other possessions, to form themselves a home.
Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly
disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to
the walls of their sitting-room.

In such employments as these they were inter-
rupted soon after breakfast the next day by the
entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome
them to Barton, and to offer them every accommo-
dation from his own house and garden in which
theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John
Middleton was a good-looking man, about forty.
He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too
long ago for his young cousins to remember him.
^^is countenance was thoroughly good-humored,
and his manners were as friendly as the style of
his lette]^> Their arrival seemed to afford him
real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object
of real solicitude to him. He said much of his
earnest desire of their living on the most sociable
terms with his family, and pressed them so cor-
dially to dine at Barton Park every day till they
were better settled at home, that, though his en-
treaties were carried to a point of perseveriuace
beyond civility, they could not give offence. His
kindness was not confined to words ; for within an
hour after he left them, a large basket, full of
garden stuff and fruit, arrived from the Park,,
which was followed before the end of the day by n

J

46

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

present of game. He insisted, moreoyer, on con-
veying all their letters to and from the post for
them, and would not be denied'the satisfaction for
sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message
by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs.
Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her
visit would be no inconvenience ; and as this mes-
sage was answered by an invitation equally polite,
her ladyship was introduced to them the next
day.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a per-
son on whom so much of their comfort at Barton
must depend; and the elegance of her appearance
was favorable to their wishes. XisAy Middleton
was not more than six or seven and twenty; her
face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,
and her address graceful^ Her manners had all
the elegance which her husband's wanted. But
they would have been improved by some share of
his frankness and warmth ; and her visit was long
enough to detract something from their first admi-
ration, by showing that, though perfectly well
bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to
say for herself beyond the most commonplace in-
quiry or remark.

Conversation, however, was not wanted, for Sir
John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had
taken the wise precaution of bringing with her

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 47

their eldest child^ a fine little boy about six years
old; by which means there was one subject always
to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity,
for they had to inquire his name and age, admire
his beauty, and ask him questions which his
mother answered for him, while he hung about her
and held down his head, to the great surprise of
her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy
before company, as he could make noise enough at
home. On every formal visit a child ought to be\
of the party, by way of provision for discourse, j .

In the present case it took up ten minutes to de-/^''
termine whether the boy were most like his father
or mother, and in what particular he resembled
either; for of course everybody differed, and every-
body was astonished at the opinion of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the
Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children,
as Sir John would not leave the house without
securing their promise of dining at the Park the
next day.

CHAPTER Vn.

Babtoit Park was about half a mile from the cot-
tage. The ladies had passed near it in their way
along the valley, but it was screened from their
view -at home by the projection of a hill. The
house was large and handsome; and the Middle-
tons lived in a style of equal hospitality and ele-
gance. The former was for Sir John's gratification,
the latter for that of his lady. They were scarcely
ever without some friends staying with them in
the house, and they kept more company of every
kind than any other family in the neighborhood.
It was necessary to the happiness of both; for
however dissimilar in temper and outwatd be-
. , havior, they strongly resembled each other in that
V\ ^ total want of talent and taste which confined their

employments, unconnected with such as society
produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir
John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother.
He hunted and shot, and she humored her chil-
dren ; and these were their only resources. Lady
Middleton had the advantage of being able to
spoil her children all the year round, while Sir
John's independent employments were in existence

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 49

only half the time. Continual engagements at
home and abroad, however, supplied all the defi-
ciencies of nature and education; supported the
good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the
good breeding of his wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the ele-
gance of her table and of all her domestic arrange-
ments; and from this kind of vanity was her
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But
Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more
real; he delighted in collecting about him more
young people than his house would hold, and the
noisier they were the better was he pleased. He
was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the
neighborhood; for in summer he was forever form-
ing parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of
doors, and in winter his private balls were numer-
ous enough for any young lady who was not suffer-
ing under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was
always a matter of joy to him; and in every point
of view he was charmed with the < inhabitants he
had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The
Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected.
It was enough to secUre his good opinion; for to be
unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to
make her mind as captivating as her person. The
friendliness of his disposition made him happy in
accommodating those whose situation might be

VOL. I. — 4

50 SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT.

considered, in comparison with the past, as un-
fortunate. In showing kindness to his cousins,
therefore, he had the real satisfaction of a good
heart; and in settling a family of females only in
his cottage,, he had all the satisfaction of a sports-
men,— for a sportsman, though he esteems only those
of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often
desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting
them to a residence within his own manor.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at
the door of the house by Sir John, who welcomed
them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;
and as he attended them to the drawing-room, re-
peated to the young ladies the concern which the
same subject had drawn from him the day before,
at being unable to get any smart young men to
meet them. They would see, he said, only one
gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend
who was staying at the Park, but who was neither
very young nor very gay* He hoped they would
all excuse the smallness of the party, and could as-
sure them it would never happen so again. He had
been to several families that morning, in hopes of
procuring some addition to their number, but it
was moonlight, and everybody was full of engage-
ments. Luckily, Lady Middleton's mother had
arrived at Barton within the last hour; and as she
was a very cheerful, agreeable woman, he hoped
the young ladies would not find it so very dull as

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 51

they might imagine. The young ladies^ as well
as their mother^ were perfectly satisfied with hav-
ing two entire strangers of the party, and wished
for no more.

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was
a good-humored, merry, fat, elderly woman, who
talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather
vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and
before dinner was over had said many witty things
on the subject of lovers and husbands ; hoped they
had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,
and pretended to see them blush whether they did
or not. Marianne was vexed at it for her sister's
sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to see
how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness
which gave Elinor far more pain than could
arise from such commonplace raillery as Mrs.
Jennings's.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed
no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be
his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be his wife,
or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother.
He was silent and grave. His appearance, how-
ever, was not unpleasing, in spite of his being, in
the opinion of Marianne and Margaret, an absolute
old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five-
and-thirty ; but though his face was not handsome,

his countenance was sensible, and his address was

— I 111 '

particularly gentlemanlike.

\y

52 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

There was nothing in any of the party which
could recommend them as companions to the Dash-
woods ; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive that in comparison
of it the gravity of Colonel Brandon, and even the
boisterous mirth of Sir John and his mother-in-law,
were interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be
roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her
four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her
about, tore her clothes, and put an end to
every kind of discourse except what related to
themselves.

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to
be musical, she was invited to play. The instru-
ment was unlocked, everybody prepared to be
charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at
their request went through the chief of the songs
which Lady Middleton had brought into the family
on her marriage, and which, perhaps, had lain ever
since in the same position on the pianoforte; for
her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving
up music, although, by her mother's account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was
very fond of it.

Marianne's performance was highly applauded.
Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of
every song, and as loud in his conversation with
the others while every song lasted. Lady Middle-
ton frequently called him to order, wondered how

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 53

any one's attention could be diverted from music

for a moment^ and asked Marianne to sing a par-^/^^^w^ ^'

ticular song which Marianne had^usl'^liished.

Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party/ heard her
without being in raptures. He paid her only the ;
compliment of attention, and she felt a respect for
him on the occasion, which the others had reason-
ably forfeited by their shameless want of taste.
His pleasure in music, though it amounted nol
to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympai
thize with her own, was estimable when con-
trasted against the horrible insensibility of th<
others; and she was reasonable enough to allow]
that a man of five-and-thirty might well have out-!
lived all acuteness of feeling, and every exquisite
power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed
to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced
state of life which humanity required.

CHAPTER VIII.

Mbs. Jbnkikgs was a widow with an ample joint-
ure. She bad only two daughters, both of whom
she had lived to see respectably married^ and she

i had now, therefore, nothing to do but to marry all
the rest of the world. In the promotion of this
object she was zealously active, as far as her abil-
ity reached; &nd missed no opportunity of project-
ing weddings among all the young people of her
acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the
discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the ad-
vantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of
many a young lady by insinuations of her power
over such a young man; and this kind of discern-
ment enabled her, soon after her arrival at Barton,
decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was
very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She
rather suspected it to be so, on the very first even-
ing of their being together, from his listening so
attentively while she sang to them ; and when the
visit was returned by the Middletons dining at the

-cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening
to her again. It must be so. She w^as peifectly
convinced of it. It would be an excellent match^

SENSE AND SENSTBILTTY. 55

for he was rich, and she was handsome. Mrs.
Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Bran-
don well married, ever since her connection with
Sir John first brought him to her knowledge ; and
she was always anxious to get a good husband for
every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no
means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with
endless jokes against them both. At the Park
she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at
Marianne. To the former her raillery was prob-
ably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly
indifferent : but to the latter it was at first incom-
prehensible; and when its object was understood,
she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its ab-
surdity, or censure its impertinence, — for she con-
sidered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's
advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an
old bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five
years younger than herself so exceedingly ancient
as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daugh-
ter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the
probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his
age.

''But at least, mamma, you cannot deny the
absurdity of the accusation, though you may not
think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Bran*
don is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but

J

t

56 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

he is old enough to be my father; and if he were
ever animated enough to be in love^ must have
long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is
too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from
such wit^ if age and infirmity will not protect
him? ''

"Infirmity! '' said Elinor, "do you call Colonel
Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his
age may appear much greater to you than to my
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to
his having the use of his limbs? '*

*'Did not you hear him complain of the rheu-
matism, and is not that the commonest infirmity
of declining life? ''

" My dearest child,'' said her mother, laughing,
"at this rate you must be in continual terror of
my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that
my life has been extended to the advanced age of
forty.''

"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I
know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old
enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
losing him in the course of nature. He may live
twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing
to do with matrimony."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, " thirty-five and seven-
teen had better not have anything to do with mat-
rimony together. But if there should by any
chance happen to be a woman who is single at

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 57

seyen-and-twenty, I should not think Colonel
Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to hi^
marrying Aer.''

*'A woman of seven-and-twenty/' said Mari-
anne, after pausing a moment, '^ can never hope
to feel or inspire affection again ; and if her home
be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can sup-
pose that she might bring herself to submit to the
offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and
security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman,
therefore, there would be nothing unsuitable. It
would be a compact of convenience, and the world
would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no
marriage at all; but that would be nothing. To
me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in
which each wished to be benefited at the expense
of the other.''

*'It would be impossible, I know," replied
Elinor, *' to convince you that a woman of seven -
and-twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
anything near enough to love, to make him a desir-
able companion to her. But I must object to your
dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the con-
stant confinement of a sick-chamber, merely be-
cause he chanced to complain yesterday (a very
cold, damp day! of a slight rheumatic feel ^in one
of his shouldp'S."

''But heAalked of fiannel waistcoats," said
Marianne; ^'and with me a fiannel waistcoat is

58 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

inyariably connected with aches, cramps, rheuma-
tisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict
the old and the feeble."

** Had. he been only in a violent fever, you would
not have despised him half so much. Confess,
Marianne, is not there something interesting to
you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick
pulse of a fever ? "

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room,
"Mamma,'' said Marianne, " I have alarm on the
subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you.
I am sure Edward Eerrars is not well. We have
now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does
not come. Nothing but real indisposition could
occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can
detain him at Norland? "

" B[ad you any idea of his coming so soon? "
said Mrs. Dashwood. "Z had none. On the con-
trary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the sub-
ject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes
showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accept-
ing my invitation, when I talked of his coming to
Barton. Does Elinor expect him already? "

"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course
she must."

"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I
was talking to her yesterday of getting a new
grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed
that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it

SENSE AND SENSEBILITT. 59

was not likely that the room would be wanted for
some time."

''How strange this is! what can be the mean-
ing of it! But the whole of their behavior to each
other has been unaccountable I How cold, how
composed were their last adieus! How languid
their conversation the last evening of their being
together! In Edward's farewell there was no dis-
tinction between Elinor and me : it was the good
wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice
did I le&ve them purposely together in the course
of the last morning, and each time did he most
unaccountably follow me out of the room. And
Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried
not as I did. Even now her self-command is in-
variable. When is she dejected or melancholy?
When does she try to avoid society, or appear
restless and dissatisfied in it? ''

CHAPTER IX.

The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with
tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and
the garden, with all the objects surrounding them,
were now become familiar, and the ordinary pur-
suits which had given to Norland half its charms
were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment
than Norland had been able to afford since the
loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who
called on them every day for the first fortnight,
and who was not in the habit of seeing much occu-
pation at home, could not conceal his amazement
on finding them always employed.

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park,
were not many; for in spite of Sir John's urgent
entreaties that they would mix more in the neigh-
borhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage
being always at their service, the independence of
Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of so-
ciety for her children; and she was resolute in
declining to visit any family beyond the distance
of a walk. There were but few who could be so
classed; and it was not all of them that were at-
tainable. About a mile and a half from the cot*

SENSE Aim SENSIBILITT. 61

tage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham,
which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
described, the girls had, in one of their earliest
walks, discovered an ancient respectable-looking
mansion, which, by reminding them a little of
Norland, interested their imagination and made
them wish to be better acquainted with it. But
they learned, on inquiry, that its possessor, an
elderly lady of very good character, was unfortu-
nately too infirm to mix with the world, and never
stirred from home.

The whole country about them abounded in
beautiful walks. The high downs, which invited
them from almost every window of the cottage to
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their sum-
mits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of
the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties ;
and towards one of these hills did Marianne and
Margaret one memorable morning direct their
steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a
showery sky, and unable longer to bear the con-
finement which the settled rain of the two pre-
ceding days had occasioned. The weather was
not tempting enough to draw the two others from
their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's
declaration that the day would be lastingly fair,
and that every threatening cloud would be drawn
off from their hills; and the two girls set off
together.

62 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

They gayly ascended the downs^ lejoiciBg in
their own penetration at every glimpbe of blue
sky; and when they caught in their faces the ani-
mating gales of a high southwesterly wind, they
pitied the fears which had prevented their mother
and Elinor from sharing such delightful sensations*

'*Is there a felicity in the world,'' said Mari-
anne, '^ superior to this? Margaret, we will walk
here at least two hours/'

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way
against the wind, resisting it with laughing de-
light for about twenty minutes longer, when sud-
denly the clouds united over their heads, and a
driving rain set full in their face. Chagrined and
surprised, they were obliged, thoitgk unwillingly,
to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their
own house. One consolation, however, remained
for them, to which the exigence of the moment
gave more than usual propriety, — it was that of
running with all possible speed down the steep
side of the hill which led immediately to their
garden gate.

They set off. Marianne had at first the advan-
tage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the
ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to
assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and
reached the bottom in safety.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers
playing round him, was passing up the hill, and

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 68

within a few yards of Marianne, when her aocident
happened. He pat down his gun and ran to her
asBiatance. She had raised herself from the
ground, bat her foot had been twisted in the fall,
and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentle-
man offered his services, and perceiving that her
modesty declined what her situation rendered ne-
cessary, took her up in his arms, without further
delay and carried her down the hill. Then pass-
ing through the garden, the gate of which had
been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly
into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived,
and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in
a chair in the parlor.

Elinor and 1i8r mother rose up in amazement at
their entrance; and while the eyes of both were
fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret
admiration which equally sprung from his appear-
ance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating
its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful
that his person, which was uncommonly handsome,
received additional charms from his voice and ex-
pression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar,
the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood
would have been secured by any act of attention
to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty,
and elegance gave an interest to the action which
came home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again, and, with a

64 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

sweetness of address which alwftys attended her^
invited him to be seated. But this he declined^
as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then
begged to know to whom she was. obliged. His
name^ he replied, was Willoughby, and his present
home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she
would allow him the honor of calling to-morrow
ko inquire after Miss Dashwood. The honor was
readily granted, and he then departed, to make
himself still more interesting, in the midst of a
heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common grace-
fulness were instantly the theme of general admi-
ration; and the laugh which his gallantry raised
against Marianne received particular spirit from
his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had

y seen less of his person than the rest; for the con-
fusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lift-
ing her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding
him after their entering the house. But she had
seen enough of him to join in all the admiration
of the others, and with an energy which always
adorned her praise. His person and air were
equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the

^ hero of a favorite story; and in his carrying her

into the house with so little previous formality

there was a rapidity of thought which particularly

recommended the action to her. Every circum-

. stance belonging to him was interesting. His

;

^l^

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 65

name was good, his residence was in their favorite
village, and she soon found out that of all manly
dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.
Her imagination was busy, her reflections were
pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was
disregarded.

Sir John called on them as soon as the next
interval of fair weather that morning allowed him
to get out of doors ; and Marianne's accident being
related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he
knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby
at Allenham.

"Willoughby! '' cried Sir John; "what, is he
in the country? That is good news, however; I
will ride over to-morrow, and ask him to dinner
on Thursday."

"You know him, then," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is
down here every year."

"And what sort of a young man is he? "

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure
you. A very decent shot, and there is not a
bolder rider in England."

"And is tJiat all you can say for him?" cried
Marianne, indignantly. " But what are his man- .
ners on more intimate acquaintance? What his
pursuits, his talents, and genius? "

Sir John was rather puzzled.

"Upon my soul,^' said he, "I do not know

VOL. I. — 5

66 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

mucli about him as to all that But he is a pleas*
ant, good-humored fellow, and has got the nicest
little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was
she out with him to-day?''

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to
the color of Mr. Willoughby's pointer, than he
could describe to her the shades of his miild.

" But who is he? '' said Elinor. " Where does
he come from? Has he a house at Allenham? "

On this point Sir John could give more certain
intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Wil-
loughby had no property of his own in the country;
that he resided there only while he was visiting
the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was
related, and whose possessions he was to inherit;
adding: ''Yes, yes, he is very well worth catch-
ing, I can tell you. Miss Dashwood ; he has a
pretty little estate of his own, in Somersetshire,
besides; and if I were you I would not give him
up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tum-
bling down hills. Miss Marianne must not ex-
pect to have all the men to herself. Brando^i will
be jealous, if she does not take care."

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with
a good-humored smile, "that* Mr. TJVilloughby will
be incommoded by the attempts of either of my
daughters towards what you call catching him.
It is not an employment to which they have been
l»rought up. Men are very safe with us, let them

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 67

be ever so rich. I am glad to find^ however, from
what you say, that he is a respectable young
man, and one whose acquaintance will not be
ineligible/'

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as
ever lived,'' repeated Sir John. "I remember
last Christmas, at a little hop at the Park, he
danced from eight o'clock till four without once
sitting down."

'* Did he, indeed? " cried Marianne, with spark-
ling eyes; " and with elegance, with spirit? "

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to
covert.''

"That is what I like; that is what a young
man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his
eagerness in them should know no moderation, and
leave him no sense of fatigue."

"Ay, ay, I see how it will be," said Sir John,
" I see how it will be. You will be setting
your cap at him now, and never think of poor
Brandon."

"That is an expression. Sir John," said Mari-
anne, warmly, " which I particularly dislike. I
abhor every commonplace phrase by which wit is
intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' and
'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all.
Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their
construction could ever be deemed clever, time has
long ago destroyed all its ingenuity."

68 SENSE AND sensdhlht.

Sir John did not much understand this reproof;
but he laughed as heartily as if he did^ and then
replied, —

'^Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare
say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite
smitten already; and he is very well worth setting
your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this
tumbling about and spraining of ankles. '^

CHAPTER X.

Mabianke's preserver, as Margaret, with more
elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called
at the cottage early the next morning, to make
his personal inquiries. He was received by Mrs.
Dashwood with more than politeness, with a kind-
ness which Sir John's account of him and her own
gratitude prompted; and everything that passed
during the visit tended to assure him of the sense,
elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of
the family to whom accident had now introduced
him. Of their personal charms he had not re-
quired a second interview to be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regu-
lar features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Mari-
anne was still handsomer. Her form, though not
80 correct as her sister's, in having the advantage
of height was more striking; and her face was so
lovely that when, in the common cant of praise,
she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less vio*^
lently outraged than usually happens. Her skin
was very brown, but, from its transparency, her
complexion was uncommonly brilliant ; her features
were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive;

/.-^/i

70 SENSE AND SENSIBrLITY.

and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was
a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardly
he seen without delight. From Willoughhy their
expression was at first held hack, hy the emhar-
ra«sment which the rememhrance of his assistance
created. But when this passed away, when her
spirits hecame collected, when she saw that to the
perfect good-hreeding of the gentleman he united
frankness and vivacity, and ahove all when she
heard him declare that of music and dancing he
was passionately fond, she gave him such a look
of approhation as secured the largest share of his
discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.

It was only necessary to mention any favorite
amusement to engage her to talk. She could not
he silent when such points were introduced, and
she had neither shyness nor reserve in their dis-
cussion. They speedily discovered that their en-
joyment of dancing and music was mutual, and
that it arose from a general conformity of judg-
ment in all that related to either. Encouraged by
this to a further examination of his opinions, she
proceeded to question him on the subject of books :
her favorite authors were brought forward and dwelt
upon with so rapturous a delight that any young
man of five-and-twenty must have been insensible
indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the
excellence of such works, however disregarded be*
fore. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same

SENSE AND SENSrEILITY.

71

books, the same passages, were idolized by each;
or if any difference appeared, any objection arose,
it lasted no longer than till the force of her argu-
ments and the brightness of her eyes could be dis-
played. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught
all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit con-
cluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a
long-established acquaintance.

^^ Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he
had left them, ^' for one morning I think you have
done pretty well. You have already ascertained
Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter
of importance. You know what he thinks of
Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimat-
ing their beauties as he ought, and you have re-
ceived every assurance of his admiring Pope no
more than is proper. But how is your acquaint-
ance to be long supported, under such extraordi-
nary despatch of every subject for discourse? You
will soon have exhausted each favorite topic. An-
other meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments
on picturesque beauty and second marriages, and
then you can have nothing further to ask."

'* Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair, is this
just? Are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you
mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy,
too frank. I have erred against every common-
place notion of decorum; I have been open and
sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spirit'

)

72 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

Wb8, dull, and deceitful. Had I talked only of
the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only
once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been
spared."

" My love," said her mother, " you must not be
offended with Elinor; she was only in jest. I
should scold her myself, if she were capable of
wishing to check the delight of your conversa-
tion with our new friend." Marianne was soft-
ened in a moment.

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his
pleasure in their acquaintance which an evident
wish of improving it could offer. He came to
them every day. To inquire after Marianne was
at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his
reception, to which every day gave greater kind-
ness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it
had ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect
recovery. She was confined for some days to the
house; but never had any confinement been less
irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good
abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and
open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed
to engage Marianne's heart; for with all this,
he joined not only a captivating person, but a
natural ardor of mind which was now roused and
increased by the example of her own, and which
recommended him to her affection beyond every-
othing else.

SENSE AND SE^IBILITT. 73

His society became graduaAy her most exquisite
enjoyment. They read, theyjtalked, they sang to-
gether; his musical talents wire considerable; and
he read with all the sensibility and ,^irit which
Edwsurd liad unfortunately waited.

In Mrs. Dashwood^s estin^tion he was as fault*
less as in Marianne's ; and JSlinor saw nothing to
censure in him but a p^pensity, in which he
strongly resembled and j^culiarly delighted her
sister, of saying too m^h -what he thought on
every occasion, without attention to persons or
circumstances. In hastily forming and giving
his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general
politeness to the enjoyment of undivided atten-
tion where his heart was engaged, and in slight
ing too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he
displayed a want of caution which Elinor could
not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne
could say in its support*

Marianne began now to perceive that the desper-
ation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of
ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of
perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Wil-
loughby was all that her fancy had delineated in
that unhappy hour, and in every brighter period,
as capable of attaching her; and his behavior de-
clared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest
as his abilities were strong.

Her mother^ too, in whose mind not one specu'

74 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

lative thought of their marriage had heen raised,
hy his prospect of riches, was led hefore the end
of a week to hope and expect it j and secretly to
congratulate herself on having gained two such
sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughhy.

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne,
which had so early been discovered by his friends,
now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it
ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention
and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate
rival; and the raillery which the other had
incurred before any partiality arose was removed
when his feelings began really to call for the
ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor
was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that
the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned
him for her own satisfaction were now actually
excited by her sister; and that however a general
resemblance of disposition between the parties
might forward the affection of Mr. Willoughhy,
an equally striking opposition of character was
no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon.
She saw it with concern ; for what could a silent
man of five-and-thirty hope, when opposed by a
very lively one of five-and-twenty? and as she
could not even wish him successful, she heartily
wished him indifferent. She liked him, — in
spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him
an object of interest. His manners, though seriousi

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 75

were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the
result of some oppression of spirits than of any
natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had
dropped hints of past injuries and disappoint-
ments, which justified her belief of his being an
unfortunate man, and she regarded him with
respect and comj)assion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more
because he was slighted by Willoughby and
Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for be-
ing neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to
undervalue his merits.

<< Brandon is just the kind of man," said
Willoughby one day, when they were talking of
him together, "whom everybody speaks well of,
and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted
to see, and nobody remembers to talk to."

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried
llarianne.

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor,
'* for it is injustice in both of you. He is highly
esteemed by all the family at the Park, and I
never see him myself without taking pains to
converse with him."

"That he is patronized by y<m," replied Wil-
loughby, " is certainly in his favor; but as for the
esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself.
Who would submit to the indignity of being ap-
proved by such women as Lady Middleton and

76 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

Mrs Jennings, that could command the indiffer-
ence of anybody else ? ''

'' But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself
and Marianne will make amends for the regard of
Lady Middleton and h^r mother. If their praise
is censure, your censure may be praise; for they
are not more undisceming than you are prejudiced
and unjust/'

" In defence of your protegS you can even be
saucy.''

^y "My protigiy as you call him, is a sensible
^: .«. man ; and sense will always have attractions for
me, — yes, Marianne, even in a man between
thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of
the world ; has been abroad, has read, and has a
thinking mind. I have found him capable of giv-
ing me much information on various subjects; and
he has always answered my inquiries with the
readiness of good breeding and good nature."

"That is to say," cried Marianne, contempt-
uously, " he has told you that in the East Indies
the climate is hot and the mosquitoes are
troublesome."

" He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I
made any such inquiries ; but they happened to be
points on which I had been previously informed."

"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observa-
tions may have extended to the existence of nabobsj
gold mohrs, and palanquins."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 77

^'I may venture to say that his observations
bave stretched much farther than your candor.
But why should you dislike him? '^

^^ I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the
contrary, as a very respectable man, who has
everybody's good word and nobody's notice; who
has more money than he can spend, more time
than he knows how to employ, and two new coats
every year.''

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he
has neither genius, taste, nor spirit; that his
understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no
ardor, and his voice no expression."

"You decide on his imperfections so much in
the mass," replied Elinor, "and so much on the
strength of your own imagination, that the com-
mendation I am able to g^ve of him is com-
paratively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce
him to be a sensible man, well bred, well in-
formed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possess-
ing an amiable heart."

"Miss Dash wood," cried Willoughby, "you
are now using me unkindly. You are endeavoring
to disarm me by reason, and to convince me
against my will. But it will not do. You shall
find me as stubborn as you can be artful. I have
three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel
Brandon : he has threatened me with rain when I
wanted it to be fine ; he has found fault with the

78 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

hanging of my curricle^ and I cannot persuade him
to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satis*
faction to you, however, to be told that I believe
his character to be in other respects irreproachable,
I am ready to confess it. And in return for an ac-
knowledgment which must give me some pain,
you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him
as much as ever.''

^

CHAPTER XI.

Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters
imagined, when they first came into Devonshire,
that so many engagements would arise to occupy
their time as shortly presented themselves, or that
they should have such frequent invitations and
such constant visitors as to leave them little lei-
sure for serious employment. Yet such was the
case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes
of amusement at home and ahroad, which Sir John
had been previously forming, were put in execu-
tion. The private balls at the Park then began;
and parties on the water were made and ac-
complished as often as a showery October would
allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby
was included; and the ease and familiarity which
naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his ac-
quaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him
opportunity of witnessing the excellences of
Marianne, of marking his animated admiration
of her, and of receiving, in her behavior to him*
self, the most pointed assurance of her affection.

80 sngB AXD SENSiBiLrrr.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attach-
ment. She only wished that it were less openly
shown, and once or twice did venture to suggest
the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.
But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no
real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at
the restraint of sentiments which were not in
themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely
an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection
of reason to commonplace and mistaken notions.
Willoughby thought the same; and their be-
havior at all times was an illustration of their
opinions.

When he was present, she had no eyes for any
one else. Everything he did was right; every-
thing he said was clever. If their evenings at the
Park were concluded with cards, he cheated him-
self and all the rest of the party to get her a good
hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the
night, they were partners for half the time; and
when obliged to separate for a couple of dances,
were careful to stand together, and scarcely spoke
a word to anybody else. Such conduct made
them, of course, most exceedingly laughed at;
but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly
to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings
with a warmth which left her no inclination for
checking this excessive display of them. To her

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 81

it was but the natural consequence of a strong
affection in a young and ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne.
Her heart was devoted to Willoughby; and the
fond attachment to Norland, which she brought
with her from Sussex, was more likely to be soft-
ened than she had thought it possible before, by
the charms which his society bestowed on her
present home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart
was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in
their amusements so pure. They afforded her no
companion that could make amends for what she
had left behind, nor that could teach her to think
of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither
Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply
to her the conversation she missed; although the
latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first
had regarded her with a kindness which insured
her a large share of her discourse. She had al-
ready repeated her own history to Elinor three or
four times ; and had Elinor's memory been equal
to her means of improvement, she might have
known, very early in her acquaintance, all the
particulars of Mr. Jennings's la&t illness, and
what he said to his wife a few minutes before he
died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than
her mother only in being more silent. Elinor
needed little observation to perceive that her re*

VOL. I. — 6

82 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

/ aer^' was a mere calmness of manner, with which
>^nse had nothing to do. Towards her husband
and mother she was the same as to them; and
intimacy was, therefore, neither to be looked for
nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that
she had not said the day before. Her insipidity
was invariable, for even her spirits were always
the same; and though she did not oppose the
parties arranged by her husband, provided every-
thing were conducted in style, and her two eldest
children attended her, she never appeared to re-
ceive more enjoyment from them than she might
have experienced in sitting at home ; and so little
did her presence add to the pleasure of the others,
by any share in their conversation, that they were
sometimes only reminded of her being amongst
them by her solicitude about her troublesome
boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new ac-
quaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in
any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a
companion. Willoughby was out of the question.
Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly re-
gard, was all his own; but he was a lover: his
attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less
agreeable man might have been more generally
pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for
himself, had no such encouragement to think only

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 83

of Mariaime, and in conversing with Elinor he
found the greatest consolation for the total indif-
ference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she
had reason to suspect that the misery of disap-
pointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which
accidentally dropped from him one evening at the
Park, when they were sitting down together by
mutual consent, while the others were dancing.
His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and after a
silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint
smile, ^^Your sister, I understand, does not ap-
prove of second attachments."

"No," replied Elinor; "her opinions are all
romantic."

"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them
impossible to exist."

" I believe fihe does. But how she contrives it
without reflecting on the character of her own
father, who had himself two wives, I know not.
A few yearis, however, will settle her opinions on
the reasonable basis of common-sense and observa-
tion; and then they may be more easy to define
and to justify than they now are, by anybody but
herself."

"This will probably be the case," he replied;
"and yet there is something so amiable in the
prejudices of a young mind that one is sorry to

84 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

see them give way to the reception of more general
opinions/'

" I cannot agree with you there,'' said Elinor.
" There are inconveniences attending such feelings
as Marianne's which all the charms of enthusiasm
and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her
systems have all the unfortunate tendency of set-
ting propriety at naught; and a hetter acquaint-
ance with the world is what I look forward to as
her greatest possible advantage."

After a short pause he resumed the conversation
by saying,—

'^Does your sister make no distinction in her
objections against a second attachment, or is it
equally criminal in everybody? Are those who
have been disappointed* in their first choice,
whether from the inconstancy of its object or the
perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indif-
ferent during the rest of their lives? "

" Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the
minutiae of her principles. I only know that I
never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
attachment being pardonable."

"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change,
a total change of sentiments — No, no, do not de-
sire it.; for when the romantic refinements of a
young mind are obliged to give way, how fre-
quently are they succeeded by such opinions as are
but too common and too dangerous t I speak from

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 85

experience. I once knew a lady who in temper
and mind greatly resembled your sister^ who
thought and judged like her, but who from an
enforced change — from a series of unfortunate
circumstances — " Here he stopped suddenly;
appeared to think that he had said too much, and
by his countenance gave rise to conjectures which
might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head.
The lady would probably have passed without
suspicion had he not convinced Miss Dashwood
that what concerned her ought not to escape his
lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of
fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recol-
lection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more;
but Marianne, in her place, would not have done
so little. The whole story would have been
speedily formed under her active imagination, and
everything established in the most melancholy
order of disastrous love.

CHAPTER XIl.

As Elinor and Marianne were walking together
the next morning, the latter communicated a piece
of news to her sister, which, in spite of all that
she knew hefore of Marianne's imprudence and
want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant
testimony of both. Marianne told her, with the
greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a
horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate
in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated
to carry a woman. Without considering that it
was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, —
that if she were to alter her resolution in favor of
this gift, she must buy another for the servant,
and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build
a stable to receive them — she had accepted the
present without hesitation, and told her sister of
it in raptures.

*'He intends to send his groom into Somerset-
shire immediately for it," she added; ^*and when
it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share
its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear
Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these
downs."

J

Most miwilliiig was she to awaken from such a
drMun of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy
truths which attended the affair, and for some time
she refaaed to mibmit to them. As to an additional
servant, the expense would be a trifle; mamma,
she was sure, would never object to it; and any
horse would do for him ; he might always get one
at the Park; as to a stable, the merest shed would
be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the
propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately, known to her.
This was too much.

** You are mistaken, Elinor,'' said she, warmly,
** in supposing I know very little of Willoughby.
I have not known him long, indeed; but I am
much better acquainted with him than I am with
any other creature in the world, except yourself
and mamma. It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone.
Seven years would be insufficient to make some
people acquainted with each other, and seven days
are more than enough for others. I should hold
'^ myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting

a horse from my brother than from Willoughby.
Of John I know very little, though we have lived
together for years; but of Willoughby my 'judg-
ment has long been formed."
' Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no

^ more. She knew her sister's temper. Opposition

f

I

^w

SBHSE AND SENSIBILITY. 87 ^

88 SENSE AKD SENSIBILITT.

on 80 tender a subject would only altMli lier the
more to her own opinion. But by an ippeal to
her affection for her mother^ by repmsenting the
inconveniences which that indulgent mothat mutt
draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case)
she consented to this increase of establishment,
Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised
not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kind*
ness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Wil-
loughby, when she saw him next, that it must
be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Wil-
loughby called at the cottage the same day, Elinor
heard her express her disappointment to him in a
low voice on being obliged to forego the acceptance
of his present. The reasons for this alteratioii
were at the same time related, and they were such
as to make further entreaty on his side impossible.
His concern, however, was very apparent; and
after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in
the same low voice: '^6ut, Marianne, the horse is
still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall
keep it only till you can claim it. When you
leave Barton to form your own establishment in a
more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you.''

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and
in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pro-
nouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by
her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 89

intimacy so decided, a meaning bo direct, as marked
a perfect agreement between them. From tliat
moment she doubted not of their being engaged to
each other; and the belief of it created no other
surprise than that she, or any of their friends^
should be left, by tempers so frank, to discover it
by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day,
which placed this matter in a still clearer light.
Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with
them; and Margaret, by being left some time in
the parlor with only him and Marianne, had had
opportunity for observations, which, with a most
important face, she communicated to her eldest
sister, when they were next by themselves.

"Oh, Elinor I " she cried, "I have such a se-
cret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she
will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.*'

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost
every day since they first met on Highchurch
Down; and they had not known each other a week,
I believe, before you were certain that Marianne
wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out
to be only the miniature of our great-uncle."

" But, indeed, this is quite another thing. I
am sure they will be married very soon, for he
has got a lock of her hair."

"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the
hair of some great-uncle of Ais."

90 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

^^But^ indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am
almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last
night, after tea, when you and mamma went out
of the room, they were whispering and talking to-
gether as fast as could be, and he seemed to be
begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair^
for it was all tumbled down her back; and he
kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white
paper, and put it into his pocket-book."

From such particulars, stated on such authority,
Elinor could not withhold her credit ; nor was she
disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect
unison with what she had heard and seen herself.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in
a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs.
Jennings attacked her one evening at the Park, to
give the name of the young man who was Elinor's
particular favorite, which had been long a matter
of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by
looking at her sister, and saying, '^I must not
tell, may I, Elinor? "

This of course made everybody laugh, and Eli-
nor tried to laugh too. But the effort was pain-
ful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with
composure to become a standing joke with Mrs.
Jennings.

Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 91

did more harm than good to the cause, by turning
very red, and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret, —

** Remember that whatever your conjectures may
be, you have no right to repeat them."

^*I never had any conjectures about it,'' re-
plied Margaret; ^^it was you who told me of it
yourself.''

This increased the mirth of the company, and
Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something
more.

** Oh, pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all
about it," said Mrs. Jennings. **What is the
gentleman's name? "

**I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very
well what it is; and I know where he is too."

^^Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his
own house at Norland, to be sure. He is tho
curate of the parish, I dare say."

^^Ko, that he is not. He is of no profession at
all."

*^ Margaret," said Marianne, with great warmth,
" you know that all this is an invention of your
owii, and that there is no such person in existence."

^* Well, then, he is lately dead, M^-ianne, for I
am sure there was such a man once, and his name
begins with an F."

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middle-
ton for observing, at this moment, that ^^ it rained

i

/

92 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

very hard," though she helieved the interruption
to proceed less from any attention to her than
from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inele-
gant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband
and mother. The idea, however, started by her,
was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who
was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of
others; and much was said on the subject of rain
by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-
forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and
thus, amidst the various endeavors of different
people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But
not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm
into which it had thrown her.

A party was formed this evening for going on
the following day to see a very fine place about
twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-
in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest
it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was
then abroad, had left strict orders on that head.
The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful;
and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their
praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge,
for he had formed parties to visit them at least
twice every summer for the last ten years. They
contained a noble piece of water, — a sail on which
was to form a great part of the morning's amuse-
ment; cold provisions were to be taken, open
carriages only to be employed, and everything

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 93

conducted in the usual style of a complete party
of pleasure.

To some few of the company it appeared rather
a bold undertaking; considering the time of year^
and that it had rained every day for the last fort-
night; and Mrs. Dashwood, who h^d already a
cold, was persuaded by Elinor to sta^ at home.

I

CHAPTEE Xni.

Theib intended excursion to Whitwell turned out
very differently from what Elinor had expected.
She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and^
frightened; but the event was still more unfortu-
nate, for they did not go at all.

By ten o^clock the whole party were assembled
at the Park, where they were to breakfast. The
morning was rather favorable, though it had rained
all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across
the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They
were all in high spirits and good humor, eager to
be happy, and determined to submit to the great-
est inconveniences and hardships rather than be
otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were
brought in. Among the rest there was one for
Colonel Brandon. He took it, looked at the di-
rection, changed color, and immediately left the
room.

*^ What is the matter with Brandon? '' said Sir
John.

Nobody could tell. ►

SENSE AND SENSIBELITr. 95

''I hope he has had no bad news/' said Lady
Middleton. '^ It must be something extraordinary
that could make Colonel Brandon leave my break-
fast-table so suddenly/'

In about five minutes he returned.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope?" said Mrs.
Jennings, as soon as he entered the room.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

" Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say
that your sister is worse? "

" No, m^'am. It came from town, and is merely
a letter of business."

" But how came the hand to discompose you so
much, if it was only a letter of business? Come,
come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the
truth of it."

" My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, " rec-
ollect what you are saying."

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin
Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, with-
out attending to her daughter's reproof.

"No, indeed, it is not."

" Well, then, I know whom it is from, Colonel.
And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am? " said he, color*
ing a little.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he,
addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should re-

96 SENSB AKB SENSIBILITY.

ceive this letter to-day, for it is on business wludi
requires my immediate attendance in town."

^^ In town! '' cried Mrs. Jennings. ^^What can
you have to do in town at tHs time of year? "

"My own loss is great," he continued, "in
being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I
am the more concerned as I fear my presence is
necessary to gain your admittance at Whit well."

What a blow upon them all was this I

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper,
Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it
not be suflBcient? "

He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not
be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go
to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled; but it
is not in my power to delay my journey for one
day!"

"If you would but let us know what your
business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see
whether it could be put off or not."

" You would not be six hours later," said Wil-
loughby, "if you were to defer your journey till
our return."

" I cannot afford to lose one hour."

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low
Toice, to Marianne: "There are some people who
cannot bear a party of pleasure. Bnqidon is one

SENSE AND SEKSIBILITT. 97

of them. He was afraid of catching oold^ I dare
say, and invented this trick for getting out of it.
I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own
writing."

^' I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

"There is no persuading you to change your
mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John,
" when once you are determined on anything.
But, however, I hope you will think better of it.
Consider, — here are the two Miss Careys come
over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods
walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby
got up two hours before his usual time, on pur-
pose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at
being the cause of disappointing the party, but
at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

" I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her
ladyship, " as soon as you can conveniently leave
town; and we must put ofE the party to Whitwell
till you return."

" You are very obliging; but it is so uncertain
when I may have it in my power to return, that I
dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir
John. " If he is not here by the end of the week,
I shall go after him."

"Ay, so do. Sir John," cried Mrs. Jenning8|

VOL. I. — 7

98 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

^/and then perhaps you may find out what his
business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.
I suppose it is something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

** You do not go to town on horseback; do you?"
added Sir John.

** No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a
good journey J but you had better change your
mind."

" I assure you it is not in my power."

He then took leave of the whole party.

*^Is there no chance of my seeing you and your
sisters in town this winter. Miss Dashwood? "

" I am afraid none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer
time than I should wish to do."

To Marianne he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come, Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, *^ before
you go do let us know what you are going about."

He wished her a good-morning, and, attended
by Sir John, left the room.

The complaints and lamentations which polite-
ness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth uni-
versally; and they all agreed again and again how
provoking it was to be so disappointed.

"I can guess what his business is, however,"
Mbid Mrs. Jennings, exultingly. i

\

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 99

*^ Can you, ma'am? " said almost everybody.

^* Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."

^* And who is Miss Williams? " asked Mari-
ume.

** What! do not you know who Miss Williams
ia? I am sure you must have heard of her before.
She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very
neftr relation. We will not say how near, for fear
o£ shocking the young ladies." Then lowering
her voice a little, she said to Elinor, ^^ She is his
natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.
I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his
fortune."

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily
in the general regret on so unfortunate an event;
concluding, however, by observing that as they
were all got together, they must do something by
way of being happy; and after some consultation
it was agreed that although happiness could only
be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tol-
erable composure of mind by driving about the
country. The carris^g^s were then ordered. Wil-
loughby's was first, and Marianne never looked
happier than when she got into it. He drove
through the park very fast, and they were soon
out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen
till their return, which did not happen till after

100 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

the return of all the rest. They both seemed de-
lighted with their drive ; but said only in general
terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the
others went on the downs.

It was settled that there should be a dance in
the evening, and that everybody should be ex-
tremely merry all day long. Some more of t^
Careys came to dinner; and they had the pleasnrt
V , of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir
\ John observed with great contentment. Wil-
^,. loughby took his usual place between the two

elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on
Elinor's right hand; ai)d they had not been long
seated, before she leaned behind her and Wil-
loughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for
them both to hear: " I have found you out in spite
of all your tricks. I know where you spent the
morning."

Marianne colored, and replied very hastily,
"Where, pray?''

"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that
we had been out in my curricle? "

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very
well, and I was determined to find out where you
had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and
when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-
furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I
was there six years ago."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 101

Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs.
Smtaings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that
in her resolution to know where they had heen, she
had actually made her own woman inquire of Mr.
Willoughhy's groom, and that she had by that
method heen informed that they had gone to Allen-
ham, and spent a considerable time there in walking
about the garden and going all over the house.

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true; as
it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should
propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Mari
anne had not the smallest acquaintance.

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor in-
quired of her about it ; and great was her surprise
when she found that every circumstance related by
Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was
quite angry with her for doubting it.

" Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did
not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is
not it what you have often wished to do yourself?"

" Yes, Marianne; but I would not go while Mrs.
Smith was there, and with no other companion
than Mr. Willoughby.''

^^ Mr. Willoughby, however, is the only person
who can have a right to show that house; and as
he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion. I never spent a pleas-
antei morning in my life."

102 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

^< I am afraid," replied Elinor, <' that tli^ phm-
antness of an employment does not always eviBce
its propriety."

^'On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger
proof of it; Elinor; for if there had been any real
impropriety in what I did, I should have been
sensible of it at the time, for we always know
when we are acting wrong, and with such a con-
viction I could have had no pleasure."

^^ But, my dear Marianne, as it has already ex-
posed you to some very impertinent remarks, do
you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your
own conduct? " *

^'If the impertinent, remarks of Mrs. Jennings
are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we
are all offending every moment of our lives. I
value not her censure any more than I should do
her commendation, t^am not sensible of having
done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's
grounds or in seeing her house. They will one
day be Mr. Willoughby's, and^"

" If they were one day to be your own, Mari-
anne, you would not be justified in what you have
done."

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly
gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' inter-
val of earnest thought, she came to her sister
again, and said with great good humor : ''Perhaps,
^Elinor, it was rather ill-judged in me to go to

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 103

Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particn-
larly to ahoff me the place; and it is a charming;
house, I assure ;ou. There is one remarkably
pretty sitting-room upstairs, of a nice comfortable
size for constant ase, and with modem furniture
it would be delightfnl. It is a comer room, and
has windows on two sides. On one side you look
across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you hare
a view of the church and village, and, beyond
them, of those fine, bold hills that we have so often
admired. I did not see it to advantage, for noth-
ing could be more forlorn than the furniture;
but if it were newly fitted up, — a couple of han-
dred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one
of the pleasantest summer- rooms in England,"

Could Elinor have listened to her without inter*
ruption from the others, she would have described
every room in the house witli equal delight.

/'

CHAPTER XIV.

Thb sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's
visit at the Park, with his steadiness in conceal-
ing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the won-
der, of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days : she
was a great wonderer, as every one must he who
takes a very lively interest in all the comings and
goings of all their acquaintance!^ She wondered,
with little intermission, what could he the reason
of it; was sure there must he some had news, and
thought over every kind of distress that could
have hefallen him, with a fixed determination that
he should not escape them all.

** Something very melancholy must he the mat-
ter, I am sure,'' said she. '* I could see it in his
face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances
may he had. The estate at Delaford was never
reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his
brother left everything sadly involved. I do
think he must have been sent for about money
matters, for what else can it be? I wonder
whether it is so. I would give anything to know
the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams
— and, by the by, I dare say it is, because he

\

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 105

looked so conscious when I mentioned her. Majhe
she is ill in town; nothing in the world more
likely, for I have a notion she is always rather
sickly. I would lay any wager it is ahout Miss
Williams. It is not so very likely he should he
distressed in his circumstances noWf for he is a
very prudent man, and to be sure must have
cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it
can be! Maybe his sister is worse at AyignoUi
and has sent for him over. His setting o£E in
such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish
him out of all his trouble, with all my heart, and
a good wife into the bargain."

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings; her
opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and
all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor,
though she felt really interested in the welfare of
Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder
on his going so suddenly away which Mrs. Jen-
nings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that
the circumstance did not, in her opinion, justify
such lasting amazement or variety of speculation,
her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was
engrossed by the extraordinary silenct. of her
sister and Willoughby on the subject which they
must know to be peculiarly interesting to them
all. As this silence continued, every day made it
appear more strange and more incompatible with
the disposition of both. Why they should not

V

106 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

openly acknowledge to ber mother and herself
what their constant behavior to each other declared
to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.

She could easily conceive that marriage might
not be immediately_jn their power; for^ though
Willoughby was independent, there was no reason
to believe him rich. His estate had been rated
by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year;
but he lived at an expense to which that income
could hardly be equal, and he had himself often
complained of his poverty. But for this strange
kind of secrecy, maintained by them relative to
their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing
at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly
contradictory to their general opinions and prac-
tice that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of
their being really engaged, and this doubt was
enough to prevent her making any inquiry of
Marianne.

Kothing could be more expressive of attachment
to them all than Willoughby's behavior. To
Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness
which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of
the family it was the affectionate attention of a
son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be con-
sidered and loved by him as his home; many more
of his hours were spent there than at Allenham;
and if no general engagement collected them at
the Park, the exercise which called him out in thd

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 107

mbming was almost certain of ending there; where
the rest of the day was spent by himself at the
side of Marianne; and by his favorite pointer at
her feet.

One evening in particular; about a week after
Colonel Brandon had left the country; his heart
seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him ; and on Mrs.
Dashwood's happening to mention her design of
improving the cottage in the spring; he warmly
opposed every alteration of a place which afiEection
had established as perfect with him.

"What I" he exclaimed; "improve this dear
cottage I No. That I will never consent to.
Not a stone must be added to its walls; not an
inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded.''

"Do not be alarmed;" said Miss Dashwood,
^^ nothing of the kind will be done ; for my mother
will never have money enough to attempt it."

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May
she always be poor, if she can employ her riches
no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be
assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment
of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom
I loved; for all the improvements in the world.
Depend upon it, that whatever unemployed sum
may remain, when I make up my accounts in the
spring; I would even rather lay it uselessly by

A I

108 SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT.

than dispose of it in a manner so painful to jaa.
Bat are you really so attached to this place as to
see no defect in it? ''

^'I am/' said he. ^'To me it is faultless.
Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of build-
ing in which happiness is attainable ; and were I
rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down,
and build it up again in the exact plan of this
cottage."

'^ With dark narrow stairs, and a kitchen that
smokes, I suppose," said Elinor.

** Yes," cried he, in the same eager tone, " with
all and everything belonging to it, — in no one
convenience or inconvenience about it should the
least variation be perceptible. Then and then
only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as
happy at Combe as I have been at Barton."

^* I flatter myself," replied Elinor, **that even
under the disadvantage of better rooms and a
broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own
house as faultless as you now do this."

** There certainly are circumstances," said Wil-
loughby, '^ which might greatly endear it to me;
but this place will always have one claim on my
affection, which no other can possibly share."

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Mari-
anne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively
on Willoughby as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 109

*'How often did I wish/' added he, '^when I
was at Allenhami this time twelyemonth, that
Barton Cottage were inhabited! I never passed
within view of it without admiring its situation,
and grieving that no one should live in it. How
little did I then think that the very first news I
should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came
into the country, would be that Barton Cottage
was taken; and I felt an immediate satisfaction
and interest in the event, which nothing but a
kind of prescience of what happiness I should
experience from it can account for. Must it not
have been so, Marianne? " speaking to her in a
lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone,
he said: '^And yet this house you would spoil,
Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its sim-
plicity by imaginary improvement ! and this dear
parlor in which our acquaintance first began, and
in which so many happy hours have been since
spent by us together, you would degrade to the
condition of a common entrance, and everybody
would be eager toj)ass through the room which
has hitherto contained within itself more real ac-
commodation and comfort than any other apart-
ment of the handsomest dimensions in the world
could possibly afford/'

Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no al*
teration of the kind should be attempted.

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied.

110 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

'^ Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little
further, and it virill make me happy. Tell me that
not only your house will remain the same, hut
that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged
as your dwelling; and that you will always con-
sider me witjh the kindness which has made every-
thing helonging to you so dear to me."

The promise was readily given, and Wil-
loughhy's hehavior during the whole of the even-
ing declared at once his affection and happiness.

" Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner?" said
Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. ^^ I do
not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the Park, to call on Lady Middleton."

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.

CHAPTEE XY.

Mbs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took
place the next day, and two of her daughters went
with her; hut Marianne excused herself from being
of the party, under some trifling pretext of em*
ployment ; and her mother, who concluded that a
promise had been made by Willoughby the night
before of calling on her while they were absent^
was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at
home.

On their return from the Park, they found Wil-
loughby's curricle and servant in waiting at the
cottage^ and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that
her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as
she had foreseen; but on entering the house she
beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect.
They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne
came hastily out of the parlor apparently in vio-
lent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes,
and, without noticing them, ran upstairs. Sur-
prised and alarmed, they proceeded directly into
the room she had just quitted, where they found
only Willoughby, who was leaning ag^nst the
mantelpiece with his back towards them. He

112 SENSE AND SENSEBILITY.

turned round on their coming in^ and his coun-
tenance showed that he strongly partook of the
emotion which overpowered Marianne.

* * Is anything the matter with her? ' ' cried Mrs.
Dashwood; as she entered, — ^*is she ill? '*

^'I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheer-
ful; and with a forced smile presently added, '^ It
is I who may rather expect to be ill, — for I am now
suffering under a "very heavy disappointment! "

^^Disappointment! "

'' Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement
with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised
the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent
cousin, by sending me on business to London. I
have just received my despatches, and taken my
farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration
I am now come to take my farewell of you."

''To London! — and are you going this morn-
ing? "

"Almost this moment."

"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith
must be obliged, and her business will not detain
you from us long, I hope?"

He colored as he replied: "You are very kind;
but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire
immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never
repeated within the twelvemonth."

"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is
Allenham the only house in the neighborhood to

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 113

which you will be welcome? For shame^ Wil-
loughby; can you wait for an invitation here? ''

His color increased; and^ with his eyes fixed,
on the ground^ he only replied, "You are too
good.'^

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise.
Elinor felt equal amazement. Eor a few moments
every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.

" I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that
at Barton Cottage you will always be welcome;
for I will not press you to return here immedi-
ately, because you only can judge how far that
might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this
head I shall be no more disposed to question your
judgment than to doubt your inclination.^'

*'My engagements at present," replied Wil-
loughby, confusedly, "are of such a nature —
that — I dare not flatter myself — ''

He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much
astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded.
This was broken by Willoughby, who said, with a
faint smile: " It is folly to linger in this manner.
I will not torment myself any longer by remaining
among friends whose society it is impossible for
me now to enjoy."

He then hastily took leave of them all, and left
the room. They saw him step into his carriage,
and in a minute it was out of sight.

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and

VOL. i.-»8

114 SENSE AND SEljfSIBILITY.

instantly quitted the parlor to give way in solitude
to the concern and alarm which this sudden depar-
ture occasioned.

Elinor^s uneasiness was at least equal to her
mother's. She thought of what had just passed
with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behav-
ior in taking leave of them, his embarrassment,
and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his
unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation —
a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike him-
self— greatly disturbed her. One moment she
feared that no serious design had ever been formed
on his side, and the next that some unfortunate
quarrel had taken place between him and her
sister. The distress in which Marianne had
quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel
could most reasonably account for, though, when
she considered what Marianne's love for him was,
a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their
separation, her sister's affliction was indubitable;
and she thought with the tenderest compassion of
that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all
probability not merely giving way to as a relief,
but feeding and encouraging as a duty.

In about half an hour her mother returned, and
though her eyes were red^ her countenance was not
oncheerful.

''Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from

SENSB AND SENSIBILITY. 115

Barton, Elinor," said she, as she sat down to work;
'* and with how heavy a heart does he travel! "

'*It is all very strange. So suddenly to be
gone I It seems but the work of a moment. And
last night he was with us so happy, €o cheerful, so
affectionate! And now, after only ten minutes'
notice, — gone, too, without intending to return!
Something more than what he owned to us must
have happened. He did not speak, he did not be-
have like himself. You must have seen the dif-
ference as well as I. What can it be? Can they
have quarrelled? Why else should he have shown
such unwillingness to accept your invitation
here? ''

<^It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor;
I could plainly see that. He had not the power of
accepting it. I have thought it all over, I assure
you, and I can perfectly account for everything
that at first seemed strange to me as well as to
you."

" Can you, indeed? "

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the
most satisfactory way; but you, Elinor, who love
to doubt where you can, — it will not satisfy you,
I know; but you shall not talk me out of my trust
in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects
his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it (perhaps
because she has other views for him), and on that
account is eager to get him away; and that the

116 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

business which she sends him off to transact is
invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is
what I believe to have happened. He is, more-
over, aware that she does disapprove the con-
nection; he dares not therefore at present confess
to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels
himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to
give in to her schemes, and absent himself from
Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I
know, that this may or may 7iot have happened;
bnt I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point
out any other method of understanding the affair
as satisfactory as this. And now, Elinor, what
have you to say?"

" Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."
" Then yon would have told me that it might
or might not have happened. Oh, Elinor, how
incomprehensible are your feelings! You had
rather take evil upon credit than good. You had
rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt
for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the
latter. You are resolved to think him blamable,
because he took leave of us with less affection than
his usual behavior has shown. And is no allow-
ance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits
depressed by recent disappointment? Are no pro-
babilities to be accepted, merely because they are
not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom
we have all so much reason to love, and no reason

SENSE AND SENSIBIUTY. 117

in the world to think ill of? — to the possibility of
motives unanswerable in themselves, though un-
avoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what
is it you suspect him of ? ^'

^^I can hardly tell you myself. But suspicion
of something unpleasant is the inevitable con-
sequence of such an alteration as we have just
witnessed in him. There is great truth, however,
in what you have now urged of the allowances
which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish
to be candid in my judgment of everybody. Wil-
loughby may, undoubtedly, have very sufficient
reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he
has. But it would have been more like Wil-
loughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy
may be advisable ; but still I cannot help wonder-
ing at its being practised by him.'*

*^Do not blame him, however, for departing
from his character, where the deviation is neces-
sary. But you really do admit the justice of what
I have said in his defence? I am happy, — and
he is acquitted. '*

^^Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal
their engagement (if they are engaged) from Mrs.
Smith; and if that is the case, it must be highly
expedient for Willoughby to be but little in
Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for
tht^ir concealing it from us.''

*^ Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you

118 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment?
This is strange, indeed^ when your eyes have been
reproaching them every day for incautiousness/'

"I want no proof of their affection," said
Elinor, *' but of their engagement I do.'*

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

'' Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the
subject by either of them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions
have spoken so plainly. Has not his behavior to
Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered
her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the
attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not
perfectly understood each other? Has not my con-
sent been daily asked by his looks, his manner,
his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor,
is it possible to doubt their engagement? How
could such a thought occur to you? How is it to
be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he
must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and
leave her perhaps for months, without telling her
of his affection, — that they should part without a
mutual exchange of confidence? "

^'I confess," replied Elinor, "that every cir-
cumstance, except one, is in favor of thenf en-
gagement; but that one is the total silence of poth
on the subject, and with me it almost outwei^^

every other." \

\

SEKSE AND SENSIBILnT. 119

^'How strange this is! Tou must think
wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all
that has openly passed between them, yon can
doubt the nature of the terms on which they are
together. Has he been acting a part in his be-
havior to your sister all this time? Do you sup-
pose him really indifferent to her? '*

'^ Ko, I cannot think that. He must and does
love her, I am sure.**

'< But with a strange kind of tenderness, if .he
can leave her with such indifference, such careless'
ness of the future, as you attribute to him.'*

** You must remember, my dear mother, that I
have never considered this matter as certain. I
have had my doubts, I confess ; but they are fainter
than they were, and they may soon be entirely
done away. If we find they correspond, every fear
of mine will be removed.**

** A mighty concession indeed! If you were to
see them at the altar, you would suppose they were
going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I
require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion
has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has
been attempted; all has been uniformly open and
unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes.
It must be Willoughby, therefore, whom you
suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honoi
and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency
on his side to create alarm? Can he be deceitful? *'

120 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

y^^I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I
V ylove Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion
of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself
than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will
not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the
alteration in his manners this morning; he did
not speak like himself, and did not return your
kindness with any cordiality. But all this may
be explained by such a situation of his affairs as
you have supposed. He had just parted from my
sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of
offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of
returning here soon, and yet aware that by de-
clining your invitation, by saying that he was
going away for some time, he should seem to act an
ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he
might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In
such a case a plain and open avowal of his
difficulties would have been more to his honor,
I think, as well as more consistent with his
general character; but I will not raise objections
against any one^s conduct on so illiberal a foun-
dation as a difference in judgment from myself, or
a deviation from what I may think right and
consistent.''

''You speak very properly. Willoughby cer-
tainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though
we have not known him long, he is no stranger in

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 121

ihis part of the world; and who has ever spoken to
his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation
to act independently and marry immediately, it
might have been odd that he should leave us
without acknowledging everything to me at once;
but this is not the case. It is an engagement
in some respects not prosperously begun, for their
marriage must be at a very uncertain distance;
and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed^ may
now be very advisable.''

They were interrupted by the entrance of Mar-
garet; and Elinor was then at liberty to think
over the representations of her mother, to acknowl-
edge the probability of many, and hope for the
justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner-time,
when she entered the room and took her place at
the table without saying a word. Her eyes were
red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears
were even then restrained with difficulty. She
avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat
nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's
silently pressing her hand with tender compassion,
her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome,
she burst into tears, and left the room*

This violent oppression of spirits continued the
whole evening. She was without any power,
because she was without any desire, of command
over herself. The slightest mention of anything

122 SENSE AND SENSIBnJIT.

»

relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an
instant; and though her family were most anx-
iously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible
for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear
of every subject which her feelings connected
with him.

CHAPTER XVI.

Mabianne would have thought herself very inex-
cusable had she been able to sleep at all the first
night after parting from Willoughby. She would
have been ashamed to look her family in the face
the next morning, had she not risen from her bed
in more need of repose than when she lay down in
it. But the feelings which made such composure
a disgrace left her in no danger of incurring it.
She was awake the whole night, and she wept the
greatest part of it. She got up with a headache)
was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any
nourishment; giving pain every moment to her
mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at
consolation from either. Her sensibility w^_£0-
tent enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by her-
self, and wandered about the village of AUenham,
indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and
crying over the present reverse for the chief of the
morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence
of feeling. She played over every favorite song

124 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest
joined; and sat at the instrument gazing on every
line of music that he had written out for her, till
her heart was so heavy that no further sadness
could be gained; and this nourishment of grief
was every day applied. She spent whole hours at
the pianoforte, alternately singing and crying; her
voice often ^totally suspended by her tears. In
books, too, as well as in music, she courted the
misery which a contrast between the past and
present was certain of giving. She read nothing
but what they had been used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be
supported forever ; it sunk within a few days into
a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to
which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and
silent meditations, still produced occasional effu-
sions of sorrow as lively as ever.

Ko letter from Willoughby came; and none
seemed expected by Marianne. Her mother was
surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But
Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations, when-
ever she wanted them, which at least satisfied
herself.

"Remember, Elinor," she .^aid, "how very
often Sir John fetches our letters himself from
the post, and carries them to it. We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we muit

SENSE AND SENSIBILrrr. 125

acknowledge that it could not be maintained if
their correspondence were to pass through Sir
John's hands/'

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she
tried to find in it a motiye sufficient for their si*
lence. But there was one method so direct, so
simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing
the real state of the affair, and of instantly remov-
ing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting
it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said
she, "whether she is or is not engaged to Wil-
loughby? Prom you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give
offence. It would be the natural result of your
affection for her. She used to be all unreserve,
and to you more especially."

" I would not ask such a question for the world.
Supposing it possible ^at they are not engaged^
what distress would not such an inquiry inflict!
At any rate, it would be most ungenerous. I
should never deserve her confidence again, after
forcing from her a confession of what is meant at
present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know
Marianne's heart; I know that she dearly loves
me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the
affair is made known, when circumstances make
the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt
to force the confidence of any one, — of a child inuch

126 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

less; because a sense of duty would prevent the
denial which her wishes might direct. '^

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, con-
sidering her sister's youth, and urged the matter
further, but in vain ; common sense, common care,
common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dash-
wood's romantic delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name
was mentioned before Marianne by any of her fam-
ily (Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed^ were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many
a painful hour) ; but one evening Mrs. Dashwood^
accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare,
exclaimed, —

^'We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne;
our dear Willoughby went away before we could
get through it. We will put it by, that when he
comes again — But it may be months, perhaps,
before that happens."

'^Months!" cried Marianne, with strong sur-
prise. " No, — nor many weeks. "

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said;
but it gave Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply
from Marianne so expressive of confidence in Wil-
loughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the
country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her
sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering
away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 127

avoided every companion in her rambles. If her
sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly
stole away towards the lanes ; if they talked of the
valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills,
and could never be found when the others set off.
But at length she was secured by the exertions of
Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual se-
clusion. They walked along the road through the
valley, and chiefly in silence ; for Marianne's mi7id
could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with
gaining one point, would not then attempt more.
Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the
country, though still rich, was less wild and
more open, a long stretch of the road which they
had travelled on first coming to Barton lay before
them; and on reaching that point they stopped to
look around them, and examine a prospect which
formed the distance of their view from the cottage,
from a spot which they had never happened to
reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene they soon dis-
co\ered an animated one; it was a man on horse-
back riding towards them. In a few minutes they
could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and
in a moment afterwards Marianne rapturously
exclaimed, —

*'It is he, — it is indeed; I know it is!" and
was hastening to meet him, when Elinor cried
out, —

128 SENSE AND SENSIBILFrY.

'' Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.
It is not Willougkby. The person is not tall
enough for him, and has not his air."

'^ He has, he has," cried Marianne; ^'1 am sure
he has, — his air, his coat; his horse. I knew how
soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke ; and Elinor,
to screen Marianne from particularity, as she felt
almost certain of its not being Willoughhy, 'quick-
ened her pace and kept up with her. They were
soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Mari-
anne looked again; her heart .sunk within her;
and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying
back, when the voices of both her sisters were
raised to detain her; a third, almost as well known
as Willoughhy 's, joined them in begging her to
stop, and she turned round with surprise to see
and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could
at that moment be forgiven for not being Wil-
loughhy, the only one who could have gained a
smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to
smile on him, and in her sister's happiness forgot
for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted; and giving his horse to his ser-
vant, walked back with them to BartoUi whither
he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cor-
diality, but especially by Marianne, who showed

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 129

more wannth of regard in her reception of him
than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed,
the meeting hetween Edward and her sister was
hut a continuation of that unaccountahle coldness
which she had ohserved at Norland in their mutual
hehayior. On Edward's side, more particularly,
there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to
look and say on such an occasion. He was con-
fused, seemed scarcely sensihle of pleasure in see-
ing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said
little hut what was forced from him hy questions,
and distinguished Elinor hy no mark of affection.
Marianne saw and listened with increasing sur-
prise. She hegan almost to feel a dislike of Ed-
ward; and it ended, as every feeling must end
with her, hy carrying hack her thoughts to Wil-
loughhy, whose manners formed a contrast suffi-
ciently striking to those of his hrother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first
surprise and inquiries of meeting, Marianne asked
Edward if he came directly from London. No, he
had heen in Devonshire a fortnight.

'^A fortnight! " she repeated, surprised at his
heing so long in the same county with Elinor with-
out seeing her hefore.

He looked rather distressed as he added that
he had heen staying with some friends near
Plymouth.

" Have you heen lately in Sussex? '' said Elinor.

VOL.1. — 9

130 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

'^ I was at Norland about a month ago.''

'* And how does dear, dear Norland look? ''
cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland/' said Elinor, "probably
looks much as it always does at this time of the
year, — the woods and walks thickly covered with
dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transport-
ing sensations have I formerly seen them fall!
How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them
driven in showers about me by the wind! What'
feelings have they, the season, the air altogether
inspired! Now there is no one to regard them.
They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily o^
and driven as much as possible from the sight J'

"It is not everyone," said Elinor, "who has
your passion for dead leaves."

" No. My feelings are not often shared, not
often understood; but sometimes they are." As
she said this she sunk into a reverie for a few
moments; but rousing herself again, "Now, Ed-
ward," said she, calling his attention to the pros-
pect, "here is Barton valley. Look up it, and
be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills. Did
you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton
Park, amongst those woods and plantations. You
may see the end of the house. And there, be-
neath that farthest hill, which rises with such
grandeur, is our cottage."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 131

"It is a beautiful country," lie replied; ''but
^hese bottoms must be dirty in winter."

" How can you think of dirt with such objects
before you? "

''Because/' replied he, smiling, "among the
rest of the objects before me I see a very dirtyt
lane."

"How strange! " said Marianne to herself, as
she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighborhood here?
Are the Middletons pleasant people? "

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could
not be more unfortunately situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you
say so? How can you be so unjust? They
are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars, and
towards us have behaved in the friendliest man-
ner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleas-
ant days we have owed to them? "

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor
how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her
attention to their visitor, endeavored to support
something like discourse with him, by talking of
their present residence, its conveniences, etc., ex-
torting from him occasional questions and remarks.
His coldness and reserve mortified her severely;
she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to

132 SEKBE AKD SENSIBILITT.

regulate her behavior to him by the past rather
than the present, she avoided every appearance of
resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she
thought he ought to be treated from the family
connection.

CHAPTEE XVn.

Mbs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment
at seeing him^ for his coming to Barton was, in
her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her
joy and expressions of regard long outlived her
wonder. He received the kindest welcome from
her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand
against such a reception. They had begun to fail
him before he entered the house, and they were
quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs.
Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be
in love with either of her daughters, without ex-
tending the passion to her; and Elinor had the
satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself. His affections seemed to reanimate
towards them all, and his interest in their wel-
fare again became perceptible. He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired
its prospect, was attentive and kind; but still he
was not in spirits. The whole family perceived
it; and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some
want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table
itklifnant against all selfish parents.

134 SENSE AKD SENSIBILITT.

" What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at pres-
ent, Edward? " said she, when dinner was oyer,
and they had drawn round the fire; ^' are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself? "

*' No. I hope my mother is now convinced that
I have no more talents than inclination for a pub-
lic life.''

" But how is your fame to be established, — for
famous you must be to satisfy all your family; and
with no inclination for expense, no affection for
strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may
find it a difficult matter."

'^I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be
distinguished; and I have every reason to hope I
never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence."

''You have no ambition, I well know. Your
wishes are all moderate."

''As moderate as those of the rest of the world,
I believe. I wish, as well as everybody else, to be
perfectly happy; but like everybody else, it must
be in my own way. Greatness will not make
me so."

' ' Strange if it would ! " cried Marianne. ' ' What
have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness? "

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but
wealth has much to do with it."

"Elinor, for shame! " said Marianne; "moiity
can only give happiness where there is nothiii§«lie

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 135

to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no
real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps,'' said Elinor, smiling, "we may
come to the same point. Your competence and
my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and
without them, as the world goes now, we shall both
agree that every kind of external comfort must be
wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than
mine. Come, what is your competence? "

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a
year; not more than that.^^

Elinor laughed. " 2}u}o thousand a year! One
is my wealth! I guessed how it would end."

'* And yet two thousand a year is a very mod-
erate income," said Marianne. "A family can'
not well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure
I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper
establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two,
and hunters, cannot be supported on less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describ-
ing so accurately their future expenses at Combe
Magna.

" Hunters! " repeated Edward; "but why must
you have hunters? Everybody does not hunt."

Marianne colored as she replied, "But mdst
people do."

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel
thought, "that somebody would give us all a larg^
fortune apiece! "

136 SENSE AND SENSIBILIIT.

'^ Oh that they would! " cried Marianne^ her eyes
sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing
with the delight of such imaginary happiness.

^^We are all unanimous in that wish, I sup-
pose," said Elinor, ^' in spite of the insufficiency
of wealth."

" Oh dear! " cried Margaret, " how happy I
should be! I wonder what I should do with it."

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that
point.

^' I should be puzzled to spend a large fortune
myself," said Mrs. Dash wood, ^'if my children
were all to be rich without my help."

" You must begin your improvements on this
house," observed Elinor, ''and your difficulties
will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from
this family to London," said Edward, "in such
an event! What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dash-
wood, would give a general commission for every
new print of merit to be sent you — and as for
Marianne, I know her greatness of soul; there
would not be music enough in London to content
her. And books ! — Thomson, Cowper, Scott, —
she would buy them all over and over ag^in: she
would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their
falling into unworthy hands ; and she would have
every book that tells her how to admire an old

SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT. 137

twisted tree* Should not you, Marianne? For-
give me, if I am very saucy ; but I :was willing to
show you that I had not forgot our old disputes."

'* I loye to be reminded of the past, Edward, -«
whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall
it, — and you will never offend me by talking of
former times. You are very right in supposing
how my money would be spent; some of it, at
least, — my loose cash, — would certainly be em-
ployed in improving my collection of music and
books.'*

'* And the bulk of your fortune would be laid
out in annuities on the authors or their heirs."

''No, Edward, I should have something else to
io with it."

''Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a re-
ward on that person who wrote the ablest defence
of your favorite maxim, that no one can ever be in
love more than once in their life, — for your opinion
on that point is unchanged^ I presume? "

^'Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions
are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should
now see or hear anything to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,"
said Elinor; "she is not at all altered."

" She is only grown a little more grave than she
was."

"Kay, Edward," said Marianne, "^em need not
reproach me. You are not very gay yourself."

\--

138 SENSE AND SENSIBILin.

*' Why should you think so?*' replied he, with
a sigh. '^But gayety neyer was a part oi my
character."

''Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's/' said
Elinor. ''I should hardly call her a lively girl;
she is very earnest, very eager in all she does, -—
sometimes talks a great deal, and always with ani-
mation, — hut she is not often really merry.''

''I helieve you are right," he replied- "and
yet I have always set her down as a lively girl."

" I have frequently detected myself in such kind
of mistakes," said Elinor, ''in a total misappre-
hension of character in some point or other; fancy-
ing people so much more gay or grave or ingenious
or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly
tell why, or in what the deception originated*
Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other
people say of them, without giving one's self
time to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said
Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of
other people. I thought our judgments were given
us merely to be subservient to those of our neigh-
bors. This has always been your doctrine, I am
sure."

" Ko, Marianne, never. My doctrine has neter
aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All
I have ever attempted to influence has been the

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. ]J9»

beLavior. You must not confound my mi>n>iig>
I am guilty, I confess, of having often witbed you
to treat our acquaintance in general with greater
attention; but when have I advised you to adopt
their sentiments or conform to their judgment in
serious matters? ''

^'You have not been able, then, to bring
your sister over to your plan of general civil-
ity," said Edward to Elinor. '*Do you gain no
ground? "

^' Quite the contrary,'' replied Elinor, looking
expressively at Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your
side of the question; but I am afraid my practice
is much more on your sister's. I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy that I often seem
negligent, when I am only kept back by my natu-
ral awkwardness. I have frequently thought that
I must have been intended by nature to be fond of
low company, I am so little at my ease among
strangers of gentility I "

" Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inat-
tention of hers," said Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false
shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the
effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other. If I could persuade myself that my man-
ners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not
be shy."

140 SENSE AND SENSIBIIJTT

^^Bnt yon would still be reseired^'' said Hari
anne, ''and that is woise."

Edward started. ** Beserred! Am I lesenred,
Marianne? ''

*'Yes, very."

^^ I do not understand yon/' replied he, coloring,
^^Beserved! — how, in what manner? What am
I to tell you? What can yon suppose?''

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but try*
ing to laugh off the subject, she said to him: *' Do
not you know my sister well enough to under-
stand what she means? Do not you know she
calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast
and admire what she admires as rapturously as
herself? "

Edward made no answer. His gravity and
thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest
extent, and he sat for some time silent and dull.

i

CHAPTER XVIII.

Blinob saw, with great uneasiness^ the low spirita
of her friend. His yisit afforded her but a very
partial satisfaction while his own enjoyment in it
appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he
was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident
that he still distinguished her by the same affec-
tion which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring;
but hitherto the continuance of his preference
seemed very uncertain^ and the reservedness of
his manner towards her contradicted one moment
what a more animated look had intimated the pre-
ceding one.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-
room the next morning before the others were
down; and Marianne^ who was always eager to
promote their happiness as far as she could, soon
left them to themselves. But before she was half-
way upstairs she heard the parlor door open, and
turning rounds was astonished to see Edward him-
self come out.

^' I am going into the village to see my horses^ ''
said he, ''as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I
shall be back again presently."

142 SENSE AND SENSIBELITT.

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration
of the surrounding country. In his walk to the
Tillage he had seen many parts of the valley to ad-
vantage; and the village itself, in a much higher
situation than the cottage, afforded a general view
of the whole which had exceedingly pleased him.
This was a subject which insured Marianne's at-
tention; and she was beginning to describe her
own admiration of these scenes, and to question
him more minutely on the objects that had partic-
ularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her
by saying: "You must not inquire too far, Mari-
anne. Bemember I have no knowledge in the pic
turesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance
and want of taste if we come to particulars. I
shall call hills steep which ought to be bold,
surfaces strange and uncouth which ought to be
irregular and rugged, and distant objects out of
sight which ought only to be indistinct through
the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must
be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly
give. I call it a very..^e country, — the hills,
are steep, the woods aeem full of fine timb^i and
the valley looks comfortable and snug^ — with
rich meadows and several neat farmhouses scat-
tered here and there. It exactly answers my idea
of a fine country, because it unitea beauJ^.Jwith
utilityj — and I dare say it is a picturesque one too,
because you admire it. I can easily believe it to

^

C.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 143

be full of rocks and promontories, gray moss and
brushwood; but these are all lost on me. I know
nothing of the picturesque."

^^I am afraid it is but too true/' said MarianM;
"but why should you boast of it?'' .'

**Xjniapftfit," said Elinor, "that .to ttppijl tig
kind of affectation, Edward here falls into anothor.
Because he believes many people pretend to Jttow
admiration of the beauties of nature tlMMH they
really feel, and is disgusted with such pt^toasions,
he affects great indifference and less dismmination
in viewing them himself than he posMMes. He ia
fastidious, and will have an affeetation of his own." ^ J *

"It is very true," said Mariaame, '^that admfnTvo. ^ ,

ration of landscape scenery has become a merej V ' ^
jargon. Everybody pxvtemds to feel and tries to
describe with the taste and elegance of him who
first defined what pietureeque beauty was. I detest
jargon of every kind; and sometimes I have kept
my feelings to myself, because I could find no lan-
guage to describe them in but what was worn and
hackneyed out of all sense and meaning."

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you
really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which
you profess to feel. But, in retami your sistei
must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I
like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque princi'
pies. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees.
I admire them much more if they are tall, straight^

^liMkMMi:^''"^'^^

144 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

■nd flourishing. I do Dot like rained, tattemd
cottages. I am not fond of nettlea oi thistles, of
heath blossoms. I have more pleosore in a snug
tarmhonBe than a watch-towei, — and » troop of
Hdy, happy villagers please me better than the
teeTt banditti in the world."

Ibvianne looked vith amazement at Edward,
with eonpassion at her sister. Elinor only
laughed.

The subject vras continued no further; and Ma-
rianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new
object suddenly engaged her attention. She was
sitting by Edward, and, in taking his tea from
Mrs. Daahwood, Ms hand passed so directly before
her as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the
centre, very conspicuous on one of bis fingers.

" I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,"
she cried. " Is that Fanny's hair? I remember
her promising to give yon some. But I should
have thought her hair had been darker."

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really
fei' , but when she saw how much she had pained
Edwari, her "wn vexation at her want of thought
coult. not be surpassed by his. He colored very
deeply, and, ^ving a momentary glance at Elinor,
replied: " Yes, it is my sister's hair. The setting
always casts a different shade on it, you know."

Elinor liad met hia eye, and looked conscious
likewise. That the hair was her own, she instaa*

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 145

taneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the
only difference in their conclusions was, that what
Marianne considered as a free gift from her sister^
Elinor was conscious must have been procured by
some theft^ or contrivance unknown to herself.
She was not in a humor, however, to regard it as
an affront ; and affecting to take no notice of what
passed^ by instantly talking of something else, she
internally resolved henceforward to catch every
opportunity of eying the hair and of satisfying
herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the
shade of her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and
it ended in an absence of mind still more settled.
He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she
had said; but her own forgiveness might have
been more speedy, had she known how little of-
fence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day they were visited
by Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, who, having
heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage,
came to take a survey of the guest. With the as-
sistance of his mother-in-law. Sir John was not
long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began
with an F. And this prepared a future mine of
raillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing
but the newness of their acquaintance with Ed-
ward could have prevented from being immediately

VOL. I. — IQ

146 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

sprung. But, as it was, she only learned from
some very significant looks, how far their penetra-
tion, founded on Margaret's instructions, extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without
either inviting them to dine at the Park the next
day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On
the present occasion, for the better entertainment
of their visitor, towards whose amusement he felt
himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage
them for both.

''You must drink tea with us to-night," said
he, ''for we shall be quite alone; and to-morrow
you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be
a large party."

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And
who knows but you may raise a dance? " said she.
"And that will tempt j/au, Miss Marianne."

"A dance?" cried Marianne. "Impossible!
Who is to dance?"

" Who? Why, yourselves, and the Careys and
Whitakers, to be sure. What! you thought no-
body could dance because a certain person that
shall be nameless is gone! "

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John^
"that Willoughby were among us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new sus-
picions to Edward. " And who is Willoughby? "
said he jin a low voice to Miss Dashwood^ by whom
he was sitting.

I

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 147

She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's coun-
tenance was more communicative. Edward saw
enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of
others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had
puzzled him before; and when their visitors left
them he went immediately round her, and said, in
a whisper: ^'I have been guessing. Shall I tell
you my guess? '*

" What do you mean? "

" Shall I tell you? "

"Certainly.'*

"Well, then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby
hunts."

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she
could not help smiling at the quiet archness of his
manner, and, after a moment's silence, said, —

"Oh, Edward! How can you? — But the time
will come, I hope — I am sure you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather aston-
ished at her earnestness and warmth; for had he
not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her
acquaintance in general, founded only on a some-
thing or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby and
herself, he would not have ventured to mention it

CHAPTER XIX.

Edwabd remained a week at tHe cottage; lie was
earnestly pressed by Mrs. Dasbwood to stay lon-
ger; but, as if be were bent only on self -morti-
fication, be seemed resolved to be gone wben bis
enjoyment among bis friends was at tbe beigbt.
His spirits during tbe last two or tbree days,
thougb still very unequal, were greatly improved ;
be grew more and more partial to tbe bouse and
environs, never spoke of going away witbout a
sigb, declared bis time to be wbolly disengaged,
even doubted to wbat place be sbould go wben
be left tbem, — but still, go be must. Never bad
any week passed so quickly, — be could bardly be-
lieve it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; otber
tbings be said, too, wbicb marked tbe turn of bis
feelings, and gave tbe lie to bis actions. He bad
no pleasure at Norland, be detested being in town;
but eitber to Norland or London be must go. He
valued tbeir kindness beyond anytbing, and bis
greatest bappiness was in being witb tbem; yet
be must leave tbem at tbe end of tbe week, in
spite of tbeir wisbes and bis own, and witbout any
restraint on bis time.

J

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 149

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this
way of acting to his mother's account; and it was
happy for her that he had a mother whose char-
acter was so imperfectly known to her as to be the
general excuse for everything strange on the part
of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as
she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncer-
tain behavior to herself, she was very well disposed
on the whole to regard his actions with all the
candid allowances and generous qualifications
whicW had been rather more painfully extorted
from her, for Willoughby's service, by her mother.
His want of spirits, of openness, and of consist-
ency were most usually attributed to his want of
independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs.
Eerrars's dispositions and designs. The shortness
of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leav-
ing them, originated in the same fettered inclina-
tion, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing
with his mother. The old, well-established griev-
ance of duty against will, parent against child^
was the cause of all. She would have been glad to
know when these difficulties were to cease, this op-
position were to yield, — when Mrs. Ferrars would
be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy.
But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn
for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in Ed-
ward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark
of regard in look or word which fell from him while

150 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

at Barton, and above all, to that flattering proof of
it which he constantly wore round his finger.

"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as
they were at breakfast the last morning, "you
would be a happier man if you had any profession
to engage your time and give an interest to your
plans and actions. Some inconvenience to your
friends, indeed, might result from it, — you would
not be able to give them so much of your time.
But," with a smile, *^you would be materially
\ benefited in one particular at least, — you would
know where to go when you left them."

''I do assure you," he replied, ''that I have
long thought on this point as you think now. It
has been, and is, and probably will always be a
heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no neces-
sary business to engage me, no profession to give
me employment or afford me anything like inde-
pendence. But unfortunately my own nicety and
the nicety of my friends have made me what I
am, — an idle, helpless being. We never could
agree in our choice of a profession. I always pre-
ferred the church, as I still do; but that was not
smart enough for my family. They recommended
the army: that was a great deal too smart for
me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough,
— many young men who had chambers in the
Temple made a very good appearance in the first
circles, and drove about town in yery knowing

\

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

151

gigs; bnt I had no inclination for the law, even
in this less abstruse study of it, which my family
approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its
side, but I was too old when the subject was first
started to enter it; and at length, as there was no
necessity for my having any profession at all, as I
might be as dashing and expensive without a red
coat on my back as with one, idleness was pro-
nounced on the whole to be the most advantageous
and honorable, and a young man of eighteen is
not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as
to resist the solicitations of his friends to do
nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford, and
have been properly idle ever since."

"The consequence of which, I suppose, will
be," said Mrs. Dashwood, '^ since leisure has not
promoted your own happiness, that your sons will
be brought up to as many pursuits, employments,
professions, and trades as Columella's."

"They will be brought up, " said he, in a serious
accent, "to be as unlike myself as is possible, —
in feeling, in action, in condition, in everything."

"Come, come; this is all an effusion of im-
mediate want of spirits, Edward. You are in a
melancholy humor, and fancy that any one unlike
yourself must be happy. But remember that the
pain of parting from friends will be felt by every-
body at times, whatever be their education or state.
Know your own happiness. You want nothing

\

152 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

but patience; or give it a more fascinating name, •—
call it hope. Your mother will secure to jou in
time that independence you are so anxious for; it
is her duty, and it will, it must erelong, become
her happiness to prevent your whole youth from
being wasted in discontent. How much may not
a few months do? ''

"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy
many months to produce any good to me."

This desponding turn of mind, though it could
not be communicated to Mrs. Dashwood, gave ad-
ditional pain to them all in the parting, which
shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable im-
pression on Elinor's feelings especially, which
required some trouble and time to subdue. But
as it was her determination to subdue it, and to
prevent herself from appearing to sufEer more than
what all her family suffered on his going away,
she did not adopt the method so judiciously em-
ployed by Marianne, on a similar occasion, to aug-
ment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence,
solitude, and idleness. Their means were as dif-
ferent as their objects, and equally suited to the
advancement of each.

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as
he was out of the house, busily employed herself
the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the
mention of his name, appeared to interest herself
almost as much as ever in the general concerns of

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 153

the family; and if by this conduct she did not
lessen her own grief^ it was at least prevented from
unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters
were spared much solicitude on her account.

Such behavior as this, so exactly the reverse of
her own, appeared no more meritorious to Mari-
anne than her own had seemed faulty to her.
The business of self-command she settled very
easily, — with strong a^ections it was impossible,
with calm ones it could have no merit. That her
sister's affections were calm, she dared not deny,
though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the
strength of her own she gave a very striking
proof, by still loving and respecting that sister in
spite of this mortifying conviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family,
or leaving the house in determined solitude to
avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to in-
dulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded
her leisure enough to think of Edward and of
Edward's behavior in every possible variety which
the different state of her spirits at different times
could produce*, — with tenderness, pity, approba-
tion, censure, and doubt. There were moments in
abundance, when, if not by the absence of her
mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their
employments, conversation was forbidden among
them, and every effect of solitude was produced.
Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts

154 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

could not be chained elsewhere ; and the past and
the future, on a subject so interesting, must be
before her, must force her attention, and engross
her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.

Prom a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her
drawing-table, she was roused on.e morning, soon
after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of
company. She happened to be quite alone. The
closing of the little gate at the entrance of the
green court in front of the house drew her eyes to
the window, and she saw a large party walking up
to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and
Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings; but there
were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were
quite unknown to her. She was sitting near the
window; and as soon as Sir John perceived her,
he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
knocking at the door, and stepping across the
turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak
to him, though the space was so short between
the door and the window as to make it hardly
{Possible to speak at one without being heard at
the other.

''Well,'' said he, "we have brought you some
strangers. How do you like them?"

''Hush! they will hear you."

"Never mind if they do. It is only the
Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you.
You may see her if you look this way."

SENSE Am) SENSIBILITY. 155

As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple
of minutes without taking that liberty, she begged
to be excused.

"Where is Marianne? Has she run away be-
cause we are come? I see her instrument is
open."

"She is walking, I believe."

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who
had not patience enough to wait till the door was
opened before she told her story. She came hal-
looing to the window: " How do you do, my dear?
How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are
your sisters? What! all alone? you will be glad
of a little company to sit with you. I have
brought my other son and daughter to see you.
Only think of their coming so suddenly! I
thought I heard a carriage last night, while we
were drinking our tea, but it never entered my
head that it could be them. I thought of nothing
but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come
back again ; so I said to Sir John, * I do think I
hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon
come back again — '"

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the
middle of her story, to receive the rest of the
party. Lady Middleton introduced the two stran-
gers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down-
stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to
look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings contin-

156 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.'

ued her story as she walked through the passage
into the parlor attended by Sir John.

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than
Lady Middleton, and totally unlike her in every
respect. She was short and plump, had a very
pretty face, and the finest expression of good-
humor in it that could possibly be. Her man*
ners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,
but they were much more prepossessing. She
came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her
visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when
she went away. Her husband was a grave-look-
ing young man of five or six and twenty, with an
air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but
of less willingness to please or be pleased. He
entered the room with a look of self-consequence,
slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a
word, and, after briefly surveying them and their
apartments, took up a newspaper from the table,
and continued to read it as long as he stayed.

[Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly
endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly
civil and happy, was hardly seated before her ad-
miration of. the parlor and everything in it burst
forth.

" Weill what a delightful room this is! I never
saw anything so charming! Only think, mamma,
how it is improved since I was here last I I always
thought it such a sweet place, ma'am,'' turning to

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 157

Mrs. Dashwood, ^'but you have made it so charm-
ing! Only look, sister, how delightful everything
is! Howl should like such a house for myself!
Should not you, Mr. Palmer? "

Mrv^J^%lmer made her no answer, and did not
even raise his eyes from the newspaper.

''Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she>
'* laughing; ''he never does sometimes. It is so

ridiculous! "

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood;
she had never been used to find wit in the inatten-
tion of any one, and could not help looking with
surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings in the mean time talked on as
loud as she could, and continued her account of
their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their
friends, without ceasing till everything was told.
Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily at the recollection
of their astonishment, and everybody agreed, two
or three times over, that it had been quite an
agreeable surprise.

"You may believe how glad we all were to
see them," added Mrs. Jennings, leaning forward
towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if
she meant to be heard by no one else, though they
were seated on different sides of the room; "but,
however, I can't help wishing they had not trav-
elled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of
it, for they came all round by London upon account

A I

158 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

of some business, for you know," nodding signifi-
cantly and pointing to her daughter, " it was wrong
in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home
and rest this morning, but she would come with
us; she longed so much to see you all! ''

Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do
her any harm.

'^ She expects to be confined in February," con-
tinued Mrs. Jennings.

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a
conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask
Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper.

J

*^No, none at all," he replied, and read on.

*' Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John.
"Now, Palmer, you shall see a monstrous pretty
girl."

He immediately went into the passage, opened
the front door, and ushered her in himself. Mrs.
Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if
she had not been to AUenham; and Mrs. Palmer
laughed so heartily at the question as to show she
understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her en-
tering the room, stared at her some minutes, and
then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's
eye was now caught by the drawings which hung
round the room. She got up to examine them.

" Oh dear, how beautiful these are! Well, how
delightful I Do but look, mamma, how sweet ! I
declare they are quite charming; I could look at

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 159

them forever." And tlien sitting down again, she
very soon forgot that there were any such things
in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr.
Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper,
stretched himself, and looked at them all around.

**My love, have you heen asleep?" said his
wife, Iciughing.

He made her no answer; and only ohserved,
after again examining the room, that it was very
low-pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
He then made his how, and departed with the
rest.

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to
spend the next day at the Park. Mrs. Dashwood,
who did not choose to dine with them oftener than
they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on
her own account; her daughters might do as they
pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr.
and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expec-
tation of pleasure from them in any other way.
They attempted, therefore, likewise to excuse them-
selves ; the weather was uncertain, and not likely
to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied,
— the carriage should be sent for them, and they
must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did
not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jen-
nings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties^ —

160 SEKSE AM) SEKSIBILITY.

all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party;
and tlie young ladies were obliged to yield.

" Why should they ask us? " said Marianne, as
soon as they were gone. " The rent of this cot-
tage is said to be low; but we have had it on very
hard terms, if we are to dine at the Park whenever
any one is staying either with them or with us.'^

**They mean no less to be civil and kind to us
now/^ said Elinor, "by these frequent invitations
than by those which we received from them a few
weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their
parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look
for the change elsewhere."

CHAPTEE XX.

As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room
of the Park the next day at one door, Mrs. Palmer
came running in at the other, looking as good-
humored and merry as before. She took them all
most affectionately by the hand, and expressed
great delight in seeing them again.

^'I am so glad to see you I ^' said she, seating
herself between Elinor and Marianne; ^' for it is
80 bad a day I was afraid you might not come,
which would be a shocking thing, as we go away
again to-morrow. We must go, for the Westons
come to us next week, you know. It was quite a
sudden thing our coming at all; and I knew noth-
ing of it till the carriage was coming to the door,
and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with
him to Barton. He is so droll! He nerer tells
me anything! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer;
however, we shall meet again in town very soon, I
hope.^'

They were obliged to put an end to such an
expectation.

"Not go to town! '^ cried Mrs. Palmer, with a
laugh; "I shall be quite disappointed if you do

VOL. 1.1— 11

162 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

not. I could get the nicest house in the world fox
you, next door to ours in Hanover Square. You
must come, indeed. I am sure I shall he very
happy to chaperon you at any time till I am con-
fined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into
public.^'

They thanked her, hut were obliged to resist all
her entreaties.

'*0h, my love,'' cried Mrs. Palmer to her hus-
band, who just then entered the room, "you must
help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to
town this winter."

Her love made no answer; and after slightly
bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the
weather.

"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such
weather makes everything and everybody disgust-
ing. Dulness is as much produced within doors
as without by rain. It makes one detest all one's
acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean
by not having a billiard-room in his house? How
few people know what comfort is ! Sir John is as
stupid as the weather."

The rest of the company soon dropped in.

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John,
"you have not been able to take your usual walk
to Allenham to-day."

Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing.

"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs.

SENSE Aim SKNSIBILrrT. 163

Palmer; ^^for we know all about it, I assure you;
and I admire your taste yery much, for I think he
is extremely handsome. We do not live a great
way from him in the country^ you know. Not
above ten miles, I dare say."

^^Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I
never was at his house ; but they say it is a sweet
pretty place."

" As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said
Mr. Palmer.

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her
countenance betrayed her interest in what was
said.

*^I8 it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer;
"then it must be some other place that is so
pretty, I suppose."

"When they were seated in the dining-room. Sir
John observed with regret that they were only
eight altogether.

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is
very provoking that we should be so few. Why
did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us to-
day?"

" Did not I tell you. Sir John, when you spoke
to me about it before, that it could not be done?
They dined with us last."

"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings,
"should not stand upon such ceremony."

164 SENSE ANJ» -SSmiBILITY.

"Then you would be very ill-bred,'^ cried Mj,
Palmer.

" My love, you contradict everybody," said his
wife, with her usual laugh. "Do you know that
you are quite rude? "

" I did not know I contradicted anybody in
calling your mother ill-bred."

"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said
the good-natured old lady: "you have taken,
Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back
again; so there I have the whip hand of you."

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her
husband could not get rid of her; and ezultingly
said she did not care how cross he was to her,
as they must live together. It was impossible for
any one to be more thoroughly good-natured or
more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer.
/The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent
I of her husband gave her no pain; and when he
scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.

" Mr. Palmer is so droll I " said she, in a whisper
to Elinor. " He is always out of humor."

Elinor was not inclined, after a little obser-
vation, to give him credit for being so genuinely
and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be
a little soured by finding, like many others of his
sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favor
of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly

)iU^

x

SENBE ANB SENSIBILITY. 165

woman; but she knew that this kind of blunder ' f

was too common for any sensible man to be
lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of
distinction^ she believed^ which produced his con-
temptuous treatment of everybody, and his general
abuse of everything before him. It was the de-
sire of appearing superior to other people. The
motive was too common to be wondered at; but
the means, however they might succeed by estab-
lishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not
likely to attach any one to him except his wife.

** Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,'' said Mrs.
Palmer, soon afterwards, " I have got such a favor
to ask of you and your sister I Will you come and
spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas?
Now, pray do, — and come while the Westons are
with us. You cannot, think how happy I shall
be! It will be quite delightful I My love,"
applying to her husband, *' don't you long to
have the Miss Dash woods come to Cleveland?''

'* Certainly," he replied, with a sneer; *'I
came into Devonshire with no other view."

"There now," said his lady, "you see Mr.
Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come."

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her
invitation.

" But indeed you must and shall come. I am
sure you will like it of all things. The Westons
will be with us, and it will be quite delightful

166 SENSE AND SENSIBIIJIT,

You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is;
and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is alwiays
going about the country canvassing against the
election, and so many people come to dine with
us that I never saw before; it is quite charming!
But, poor fellow ! it is very fatiguing to him, for
he is forced to make everybody like him.''

Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she
assented to the hardship of such an obligation.

*' How charming it will be," said Charlotte,
"when he is in Parliament, won't it? How I
shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his
letters directed to him with an M. P. But do you
know, he says he will never frank for me? He
declares he won't; don't you, Mr. Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

"He cannot bear writing, you know," she con-
tinued; "he says it is quite shocking."

"N"o," said he, "I never said anything so
irrational. Don't palm all your abuses of lan-
guage upon me."

"There now, you see how droll he is. This is
always the way with him! Sometimes he won't
speak to me for half a day together, and then he
comes out with something so droll, — all about
anything in the world."

She surprised Elinor very much, as they re-
turned into the drawing-room, by asking her
whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 167

^^ Certainly/' said Elinor; ^^he seems yeiy
agreeable.".

''Well; I am so glad yon do. I thought yon
would, lie is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is ex-
cessively pleased with you and your sisters, I can
tell you; and you can't think how disappointed he
will be if you don't come to Cleveland. I can't
imagine why you should object to it."

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invi-
tation, and by changing the subject, put a stop
to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as
they lived in the same county Mrs. Palmer might
be able to give some more particular account of
Willoughby's general character than could be gath-
ered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance
with him ; and she was eager to gain from any one
such a confirmation of his merits as might remove
the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began
by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby
at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately
acquainted with him.

''Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well,"
replied Mrs. Palmer, — " not that I evier spoke to
him, indeed, but I have seen him forever in town.
Somehow or other I never happened to be staying
at Barton while he was at Allenham; mamma saw
him here once -before, but I was with my uncle at
Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have
seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire if it had

168 SENSE AND SENSLBILITT.

not liappened very unluckily that we should never
have been in the countiy together. ,He is very
little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so
much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit
him, for he is in the opposition, you know; and
besides it is such a way off. I know why you
'nquire about him very well, — your sister is to
marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I
shall have her for a neighbor, you know."

'* Upon my word,'' replied Elinor, "you know
much more of the matter than I do, if you have
any reason to expect such a match."

** Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it
is what everybody talks of. I assure you I heard
of it in my way through town."

"My dear Mrs. Palmer! "

^' Upon my honor I did. I met Colonel Bran-
don Monday morning in Bond Street, just before
we left town, and he told me of it directly."

"You surprise me very much. Colonel Bran-
don tell you of it? Surely you must be mistaken.
To give such intelligence to a person who could
not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not
what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do."

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that;
and I will tell you how it happened. When we
met him, he turned back and walked with us; and
so we began talking of my brother and sister, i

and one thing and another, and I said to him: .

SENSE AND SBNSIBILrrT. 169

'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to
Barton Cottage, I hear; and mamma sends me word
they are very pretty, and that one of them is go-
ing to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe
Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must
know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately/ ''

'^ And what did the Colonel say? " !

'* Oh, he did not say much, but he looked as if
he knew it to be true ; so from that moment I set
it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I
declare. When is it to take place? "

" Mr. Brandon was very well, I hope? "

"Oh, yes, quite well; and so full of your
praises, he did nothing but say fine things of
you.'*

"I am flattered by his commendation. He
seems an excellent man, and I think him uncom-
monly pleasing."

" So do I. He is such a charming man that it
is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull.
Mamma says he was in love with your sister too.
I assure you it was a great compliment if he wasy
for he hardly ever falls in love with anybody."

*^ Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your^ part
of Somersetshire? " said Elinor.

"Oh, yes, extremely well; that is, I do not
believe many people are acquainted with him, be-
cause Combe Magna is so far off, but they all
think him extremely agreeable, I assure you. No-

170 SENSE AND SENSIBELITT.

body is more liked than Mr. Willoughby, wher<
ever he goes; and so you may tell your sister.
She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him^ upon my
honor; not but that he is much more lucky in
getting her^ because she is so very handsome and
agreeable that nothing can be good enough for her.
However, I don't think her hardly at all hand-
somer than you, I assure you; for I think you
both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer
too, I am sure, though we could not get him to
own it last night.''

Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Wil-
loughby was not very material ; but any testimony
in his favor, however small, was pleasing to her.

''I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,"
continued Charlotte, '' and now I hope we shall
always be great friends. Tou can't think how
much I longed to see you. It is so delightful that
yon should live at the cottage; nothing can be like
it, to be sure. And I am so glad your sister is
going to be well married. I hope you will be a
great deal at Combe Magna; it is a sweet place,
by all accounts."

'^You have been long acquainted with Colonel
Brandon, have not you? "

^' Yes, a great while ; ever since my sister mar-
ried. He was a particular friend of Sir John's. I
believe," she added, in a low voice, "he would
have been very glad to have had me, if he could.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 171

Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it yeiy
much; but mamma did not think the match good
enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have
mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have
been married immediately.''

*^ Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's
proposal to your mother before it was made ? Had
he never owned his affection to yourself? "

'^ Oh, no; but if mamma had not objected to it|
I dare say he would have liked it of all things.
He had not seen me then above twice, for it was
before I left school. However, I am much hap-
pier as I am. Mr. Palmer is just the kind of man
I like."

:f

CHAPTEE XXL

The Palmers returned to Cleyeland the next day^
and the two families at Barton were again left to
entertain each other. But this did not last long;
Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her
head, — had hardly done wondering at Charlotte's
being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's
acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the
strange unsuitableness which often existed be-
tween husband and wife, — before Sir John's and
Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society
procured her some other new acquaintance to see
and observe.

In a morning's excursion to Exeter they had
met with two young ladies whom Mrs. Jennings
had the satisfaction of discovering to be her rela-
tions, and this was enough for Sir John to invite
them directly to the Park as soon as their present
engagements at Exeter were over. Their engage-
ments at Exeter instantly gave way before such an
invitation; and Lady Middleton was thrown into
no little alarm, on the return Qi Sir John, by
hearing that she was very soon to jeceive a visit
from two girls whom she had never seen in her

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 173

life, and of whose elegance — whose tolerable gen-
tility even — she could have no proof, for the
assurances of her husband and mother on that sub-
ject went for nothing at all. Their being her
relations, too, made it so much the worse; and
Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were,
therefore, unfortunately founded when she advised
her daughter not to care about their being so
fashionable, because they were all cousins, and
must put up with one another. As it was impossi-
ble, however, now to prevent their coming. Lady
Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it with
all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting
herself with merely giving her husband a gentle ^,
reprimand on the subject five or six times every
day.

The young ladies arrived. Their appearance
was by no means un genteel or unfashionable; their
dress was very smart, their manners very civil.
They were delighted with the house, and in rap-
tures with the furniture ; and they happened to be
so doatingly fond of children that Lady Middle-
ton's good opinion was engaged in their favor
before they had been an hour at the Park. She
declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed,
which, for her Ladyship, was enthusiastic admira-
tion. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment
rose with this animated praise, and he set o&
directly for the cottage, to tell the Miss Dash-

174 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

woods of the Miss Steeles' arrival^ and to assure
them of their being the sweetest girls in the world*
From such commendation as this, however, there
was not much to be learned: Elinor well knew
that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met
with in every part of England, under every pos-
sible variation of form, face, temper, and under-
standing. Sir John wanted the whole family to
walk to the Park directly, and look at his guests.
Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful
to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.

" Do come now," said he; " pray come, — you
must come, — I declare you shall come. You can't
think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous
pretty, and so good-humored and agreeable I The
children are all hanging about her already, as if
she was an old acquaintance. And they both long
to see you, of all things; for they have heard at
Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in
the world, and I have told them it is all very true,
and a great deal more. You will be delighted
with them, I am sure. They have brought the
whole coach full of playthings for the children.
How can you be so cross as not to come ? Why,
they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion.
You are my cousins, and they are my wife's; so
you must be related."

But Sir John could not prevail; he could only
obtain a promise of their calling at the Park

SENSE AND SENSIBILITr. 175

within a day or two, and then left them, in amaze-
ment at their indifference, to walk home and boast
anew of their attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he
had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles to
them.

When their promised visit to the Park and con-
sequent introduction to these young ladies took
place, they found in the appearance of the eldest,
who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a
sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other,
who was not more than two or three and twenty,
they acknowledged considerable beauty. Her fea-
tures were pretty, and she had a sharp, quick eye,
and a smartness of air, which, though it did not
give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to
her person. Their manners were particularly civil,
and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind
of sense when she saw with what constant and
judicious attentions they were making themselves
agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children
they were in continual raptures, extolling their
beauty, courting their notice, and humoring all
their whims; and such of their time as could be
spared from the importunate demands which this
politeness made on it was spent in admiration of
whatever her Ladyship was doing, if she happened
to be doing anything, or in taking patterns al
some elegant new dress, in which her appearance
the day before had thrown them into unceasing

176 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

delight. Fortunately for those who pay their
court through 8uch foibles^ a fond mother, though
in pursuit of praise for her children, the most
rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most
credulous; her demands are exorbitant, but she
will swallow anything; and the excessive affection
and endurance of the Miss Steel es towards her off-
spring were viewed, therefore, by Lady Middleton
without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw
with maternal complacency all the impertinent
encroachments and mischievous tricks to which
her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes un-
tied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-
bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen
away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal
enjoyment. Jt suggested no other surprise than
that Elinor and Marianne should sit so compos-
^y ^J9 without claiming a share in what was
passing.

*^John is in such spirits to-day!" said she,
on his taking Miss Steele's pocket-handkerchief
and throwing it out of window, — "he is full of
monkey-tricks. "

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's vio-
lently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she
fondly observed, " How playful William is! "

"And here is my sweet little Anna-maria," she
added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years
old, who had not made a noise for the last two

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 177

minutes; ^' and she is always so gentle and quiet.
Never was there such a quiet little thing! ''

But unfortunately, in bestowing these embraces
a pin in her Ladyship's head-dress slightly scratch-
ing the child's neck, produced from this pattern of

gentleness such violent screams as could hardly be ( ^

> •■ f

outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The ^.
mother's consternation was excessive, but it could (*
not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles; and
everything was done by all three, in so critical an
emergency, which affection could suggest as likely
to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She
was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisseS;
her wound bathed with lavender-water by one of
the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend
her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar-plums by \
the other. With such a reward for her tears, the
child was too wise to cease crying. She still
screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two ^
brothers for offering to touch her; and all their ;
united soothings were ineffectual, till Lady Mid- f
dleton luckily remembering that in a scene of
similar distress last week some apricot marmalade
had been successfully applied for a bruised temple,
the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this
unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of
screams in the young lady on hearing it gave
them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.
She was carried out of the room, therefore, in her

VOL. I. — 12

178 SENSE Am) SENSIBILITY.

mother's arms, in quest of this medicine;, and as
the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly en-
treated by their mother to stay behind, the four
young ladies were left in a quietness which the
room had not known for many hours.

''Poor little creature! " said Miss Steele, as soon
as they were gome; '^it might have been a very
sad accident.''

" STet I hardly know how," cried Marianne,
'< unless it had been under totally different cir-
cumstances. But this is the usual way of height-
ening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed
at in reality."

^^What a sweet woman Lady Middleton isl "
said Lucy Steele.

Marianne was silent. J[t was impossible for her
to say what she did not feel, however trivial the
occasion; and upon Elinor, therefore, the whole
task of telling lies, when politeness required it,
always fell. She did her best when thus called
on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more
warmth than she felt, though with far less than
Miss Lucy.

''And Sir John, too," cried the elder sister,
"what a charming man he is! "

Here, too. Miss Dashwood's commendation, being
only simple and just, came in without any ickU.
She merely observed that he was perfectly good*
humored and friendly.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 179

"And what a charming little family they have!
I never saw such fine children in my life. I de-
clare I quite doat upon them already; and, indeed,
I am always distractedly fond of children. '^

"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile,
**from what I have witnessed this morning."

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the
little Middletons rather too much indulged. Per-
haps they may he the outside of enough ; but it is
so natural in Lady Middleton, and for my part I
love to see children full of life and spirits; I can-
not bear them if they are tame and quiet."

"I confess," replied Elinor, **that while T am
at Barton Park I never think of tame and quiet
children with any abhorrence."

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was
first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much
disposed for conversation, and who now said rather
abruptly : '* And how do you like Devonshire, Miss
Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave
Sussex?"

In some surprise at the familiarity of this ques-
tion, or at least of the manner in which it was
spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

" Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not
it? " added Miss Steele.

"We have heard Sir John admire it exces-
sively," said Lucy, who seemed to think some
apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

180 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

"I think every one rmist admire it," replied
Elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is
not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
beauties as we do."

'* And had you a great many smart beaux there?
I suppose you have not so many in this part of the
world. For my part, I think they are a vast addi-
tion always."

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking
ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many
genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"

" Nay, my dear, I 'm sure I don't pretend to say
that there a'n't. I 'm sure there 's a vast many
smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could
I tell what smart beaux there might be about Nor-
land; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods
might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so
many as they used to have. But perhaps you
young ladies may not care about the beaux, and
had as lief be without them as with them. For
my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, pro-
vided they dress smart and behave civil. But I
can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Kow,
there 's Mr. Bose at Exeter, a prodigious smart
young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson,
you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a
morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your
brother was quite a beau. Miss Dashwood, before
he married, as he was so rich? "

/

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 181

**XJfon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot
tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the
meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if
he ever was a heau hefore he married, he is one
still, for there is not the smallest alteration in
him.'^

''Oh dear! one never thinks of married men^s
heing heaux, — they have something else to do.''

"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, ''you can talk
of nothing hut heaux ; you will make Miss Dash-
wood helieve you think of nothing else." And
then, to turn the discourse, she hegan admiring
the house and the furniture.

This specimen of the Mps Steele? was enough.
The vulgar freedom and folly of the elder left her
no recommendation ; and as Elinor was not blinded
by the beauty or the shrewd look of the younger,
to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she
left the house without any wish of knowing them
better.

Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter
well provided with admiration for the use of Sir
John Middleton, his family, and all his relations ;
and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to
his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most
beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls
they had ever beheld, and with whom they were par-
ticularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to
be better acquainted, therefore, Elinor soon found

i

182 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

was their inevitable lot ; for as Sir John was en-
tirely on the side of the Miss Steeles, their party
would be too strong for opposition, and that kind
of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists
of sitting an hour or two together in the same room
almost every day. Sir John could do no more ; but
he did not know that any more was required : to be
together was, in his opinion, to be intimate; and
while his continual schemes for their meeting were
effectual, he had not a doubt of their being estab-
lished friends.

To do him justice^ he did everything in his
power to promote their unreserve, by making the
Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or
supposed of his cousins' situations in the most
delicate particulars ; and Elinor had not seen them
more than twice, before the elder of them wished
her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to
make a conquest of a very smart beau since she
came to Barton.

" 'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so
young, to be sure," said she; ''and I hear he is
quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I
hope you may have as good luck yourself soon;
but, perhaps, you may have a friend in the comer
already."

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be
more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her re-
gard for Edward, than he had been with respect to

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 183

Marianne ; indeed it was rather his favorite joke of
the two, as being somewhat newer and more con-
jectural ; and since Edward's visit, they had never
dined together without his drinking to her best
affections with so much significancy and so many
nods and winks as to excite general attention.
The letter F had been likewise invariably brought
forward, and found productive of such countless
jokes that its character, as the wittiest letter in
the alphabet, had been long established with
Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all
the benefit of these jokes; and in the elder of
them they raised a curiosity to know the name of
the gentleman alluded to, which, though often
impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece
with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns
of their family. But Sir John did not sport long
with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for
he had at least as much pleasure in telling the
name as Miss Steele had in hearing it.

"His name is Ferrars,'' said he, in a very audi-
ble whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it 's a
great secret.''

"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Fer-
rars is the happy man, is he? What! your sister-
in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? A very agreea-
ble young man, to be sure; I know him very well."

"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy,

1

184 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

who generally made an amendment to all her
sister^s assertions. ''Though we have seen him
once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much
to pretend to know him very well.''

Elinor heard all this with attention and sur-
prise. "And who was this uncle? Where did
he live? How came they acquainted? " She
wished very much to have the suhject continued,
though she did not choose to join in it herself; V,

hut nothing more of it was said, and for the first I

time in her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings defi- j

cient either in curiosity after petty information
or in a disposition to communicate it. The man-
ner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward
increased her curiosity ; for it struck her as heing
rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of
that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know,
something to his disadvantage. But her curiosity
was unavailing; for no further notice was taken
of Mr. Ferrars's name hy Miss Steele when alluded
to, or even openly mentioned hy Sir John.

/

CHAPTER XXII.

MABiAyxE, yfho had never much toleration for
anything like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority
of parts, or even difference of taste from herself,
was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the
state of her spirits, to he pleased with the Miss
Steeles, or to encourage their advances ; and to the
invariable coldness of her behavior towards them^
which checked every endeavor at intimacy on their
side, Elinor principally attributed that preference
of herself which soon became evident in the man-
ners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed
no opportunity of engaging her in conversation^
or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an
easy and frank communication of her sentiments.

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were
often just and amusing, and as a companion for
half an hour Elinor frequently found her agree-
able; but her powers had received no aid from
education. She was ignorant and illiterate; and
her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want
of information in the most common particulars,
could not be concealed from Miss Dash wood, in
spite of her constant endeavor to appear to advan-

186 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

tage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for the neglect
of abilities which education might have rendered
so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness
of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of recti-
tude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions,
her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed;
and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the
company of a person who joined insincerity with
jgnorance, whose want of instruction prevented
their meeting in conversation on terms of equality,
and whose conduct towards others made every show
of attention and deference towards herself per-
fectly valueless.

" You will think my question an odd one, T
dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were
walking together from the Park to the cottage;
"but, pray, are you personally acquainted with
your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars? "

Elinor did think the question a very odd one;
and her countenance expressed it, as she answered
that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

''Indeed! " replied Lucy; "T wonder at that,
for I thought you must have seen her at Norland
sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me
what sort of a woman she is?"

''No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her
real opinion of Edward's mother, and not very
desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity; "I know nothing of her."

(y

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 187

''I am sure you think me very strange for inquir-
ing about her in such a way," said Lucy, eying
Elinor attentively as she spoke; ''but perhaps
there may be reasons — I wish I might venture;
but, however, I hope you will do me the justice of
believing that I do not mean to be impertinent."

Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked
on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by
Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying,
with some hesitation, —

" I cannot bear to have you think me imperti-
nently curious. 1 am sure I would rather do any- ^ (Z
thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as
yours. And I am sure I should not have the
smallest fear of trusting you, indeed, I should be^
very glad of your advice how to manage in such
an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however,
there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry
you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

''I am sorry I do nuot^'*'* said Elinor, in great
astonishment, ''if it could be of any use to you
to know my opinion of her. But really I never
understood that you were at all connected with
that family, and therefore I am a little surprised,
I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her
character." .

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at
all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you

188 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

would not be so much surprised. Mrs. !P'errars is
certainly nothing to me at present; but the time
may come — how soon it will come must depend
upon herself — when we may be very intimately
connected."

She looked down as she said this^ amiably bash-
ful, with only one side glance at her companion to
observe its effect on her.

" Good heavens ! " cried Elinor, ^^what do you
mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Per-
rars? Can you be? " And she did not feel much
delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

**No,-^ replied Lucy, *'not to Mr. Robert Fer-
rars, — I never saw him in my life; but/' fixing
her eyes upon Elinor, '^to his elder brother." »
• What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonish-
ment, that would have been as painful as it was
strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy
in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or
object of such a declaration ; and though her com-
plexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and
felt in no danger of an hysterical fit or a swoon.

*^ You may well be surprised," continued Lucy;
^^for, to be sure, you could have had no idea of it
before, for I dare say he never dropped the small-
est hint of it to you or any of your family; because
it was always meant to be a great secret, and I
am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 191

'We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling.
" Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Fer-
rars of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-
law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean;
you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived
as to the name of the man on whom all my happi-
ness depends."

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most pain-
ful perplexity, 'Hhat I should never have heard
him even mention your name."

"No; considering our situation, it was not
strange. Our first care has been to keep the mat-
ter secret. You knew nothing of me or my fam-
ily, and, therefore, there could be no occasion for
ever mentioning my name to you ; and as he was
always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting
anything, that was reason enough for his not men-
tioning it."

She was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but
her self-command did not sink with it.

" Four years you have been engaged," said she,
with a firm voice.

" Yes; and Heaven knows how much longer we
may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him
quite out of heart." Then taking a small minia-
ture from her pocket, she added: " To prevent the
possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this
face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but
yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person

192 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

it was drew for. I have had it above these three
years.''

She put it into her hands as she spoke; and
when Elinor saw the paintings whatever other
doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish
of detecting falsehood, might suffer to linger in
her mind, she could have none of its being Ed-
ward's face. She returned it ahnost instantly,
acknowledging the likeness.

"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to
give him my picture in return, which I am very
much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious
to get it! But I am determined to sit for it the
very first opportunity."

<<you are quite in the right, " replied Elinor,
calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in si-
lence. Lucy spoke first.

"I am sure," said she, '* I have no doubt in the
world of your faithfully keeping this secret, be-
cause you must know of what importance it is to
us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would
never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no
fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud
woman."

** I certainly did not seek your confidence," said
Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in
imagining that I may be depended on. Your
secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I ex-
press some surprise at so unnecessary a communi-

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 193

cation. Tou must at least have felt that my
being acquainted with it could not add to its
safety.'*

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy,
hoping to discover something in her countenance,
perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what
she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suf-
fered no change.

^' I was afraid you would think I was taking a
great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you
all this. I have not known you long, to be sure,
personally at least, but I have known you and all
your family by description a great while; and as
soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an
old acquaintance. Besides, in the present case, I
really thought some explanation was due to you,
after my making such particular inquiries about
Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate that I
have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne
is the only person that knows of it, and she has no
judgpnent at all ; indeed, she does me a great deal
more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of
her betraying me. She does not know how to hold
her tongue, as you must perceive; and I am sure I
was in the greatest fright in the world t' other day,
when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John,
lest she should out with it all. You can't think
how much I go through in my mind from it alto-
gether. I only wonder that I am alive, after what

VOL. I. — 13

194 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four
years. Everything in such suspense and uncer-
tainty; and seeing him so seldom^ — we can hardly
meet above twice a year. I am sure I wonder my
heart is not quite broke."

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor
did not feel very compassionate.

"Sometimes,'* continued Lucy, after wiping
her eyes, **I think whether it would not be better
for us both to break off the matter entirely.'' As
she said this, she looked directly at her companion.
" But then, at other times, I have not resolution
enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of mak-
ing him so miserable as I know the very mention
of such a thing would do. And on my own account
toO; — so dear as he is to me, — I don't think I
could be equal to it. What would you advise me
to do in such a case, Miss Dash wood? What would
you do yourself ? "

** Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the
question; **but I can give you no advice undei
such circumstances. Your own judgment must
direct you."

*' To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few min-
utes' silence on both sides, *' his mother must pro-
vide for him some time or other; but poor Edward
is so cast down about it! Did not you think him
dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He
was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 195

go to you, that I was afraid you would think him
quite ill."

^' Did. he come from your uncle's, then, when he
visited us ? "

** Oh; yes; he had heen staying a fortnight with
U8. Did you think he came directly from town ? "

'^No,'' replied Elinor, most feelingly sensihle
of every fresh circumstance in favor of Lucy's ve-
racity; ^^I remember he told us that he had been
staying a fortnight with some friends near Ply-
mouth.'' She remembered, too, her own surprise
at the time, at his mentioning nothing further of
those friends, at his total silence with respect
even to their names.

" Did not you think him sadly out of spirits ? ''
repeated Lucy.

<< We did, indeed, particularly so when he first
arrived."

^'I begged him to exert himself, for fear you
should suspect what was the matter; but it made
him so melancholy, not being able to stay more
than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much
affected. Poor fellow I I am afraid it is just the
same with him now; for he writes in wretched
spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exe-
ter;" taking a letter from her pocket, and care-
lessly showing the direction to Elinor. '^You
know his hand, I dare say, — a charming one it is;
but that is not written so' well as usual. He was

I

196 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to
me as full as possihle."

Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could
douht no longer. The picture, she had allowed
herself to believe, might have been accidentally
obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift;
but a correspondence between them by letter could
subsist only under a positive engagement, could be
authorized by nothing else. For a few moments she
was almost overcome, — her heart sunk within her,
and she could hardly stand; but exertion was in-
dispensably necessary; and she struggled so reso-
lutely against the oppression of her feelings
that her success was speedy and for the time
complete.

** Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning
the letter into her pocket, ** is the only comfort we
have in such long separations. Yes, / have one
other comfort in his picture; but poor Edward has
not even that If he had but my picture, he says he
should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set
in a ring when he was at Longs taple last, and that
was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal
to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring
when you saw him ? "

*'I did,'* said Elinor, with a composure of voice,
under which was concealed an emotion and distress
beyond anything she had ever felt before. She
was mortified, shocked, confounded.

•\

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 197

Fortunately for her^ they had now reached the
cottage, and the conversation could be continued
no further. After sitting with them a few
minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park,
and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be
wretched.

CHAPTER XXIIL

HowEVEB small Elinor's general dependence on
Lucy's veracity might be^ it was impossible for
her, on serious reflection, to suspect it in the
present case, where no temptation could be
answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of
such a description. What Lucy had asserted to be
true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not, longer
doubt; supported as it was, too, on every side by
such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by
nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity
of acquaintance in the house of Mr: Pratt was a
foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and
alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his
melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at
his own prospects, his uncertain behavior towards
herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss
Steeles as to Norland and their family connec-
tions, which had often surprised her, the picture, H
the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body
of evidence as overcame every fear of condemning
him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no
partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of her^
self. Her resentment of such behavior, her in*

\

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 199

dignation at haying been its dupe, for a short time
made her feel only for herself; but other ideas,
other considerations soon arose. Had Edward
been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned
a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his
engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart?
"So; whatever it might once have been, she could
not believe it such at present. His affection was
all her own. She could not be deceived in that.
Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious
of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an
illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved
her. What a softener of the heart was this per-
suasion I How much could it not tempt her to
forgive I He had been blamable, highly blamable,
in remaining at Norland after he first felt her in-
fluence over him to be more than it ought to be.
In that he could not be defended; but if he had
injured her, how much more had he injured him-
self; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless.
His imprudence had made her miserable for a
while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of
all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in
time regain tranquillity ; but he — what had he to
look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy
with Lucy Steele? Gould he, were his affection for
herself out of the question, with his integrity, his
delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with
a wife like her, — illiterate, artful, and selfish?

200 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would
naturally hlind him to everything hut her heauty
and good nature ; hut the four succeeding years -^
years which, if rationally spent, give such im-
provement to the understanding — must have
opened his eyes to her defects of education, while,
the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior
society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps
rohhed her of that simplicity which might once
have given an interesting character to her heauty.

If in the supposition of his seeking to marry
herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed
great, how much greater were they now likely to
be when the object of his engagement was un-
doubtedly inferior in connections, and probably
inferior in fortune, to herself I These difficulties,
indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy,
might not press very hard upon his patience ; but
melancholy was the state of the person by whom
the expectation of family opposition and unkind-
ness could be felt as a relief!

As these considerations occurred to her in pain-
ful succession, she wept for him more than for
herself. Supported by the conviction of having
done nothing to merit her present unhappiness,
and consoled by the belief that Edward had done
nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could
even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow,
command herself enough to guard every suspicion

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 201

of the truth from her mother and sisters. And so
well was she able to answer her own expectations,
that when she joined them at dinner, only two
hours after she had first su^ered the extinction of
all her dearest hopes, no one would have sup-
posed, from the appearance of the sisters, that
Elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles
which must divide her forever from the object of
her love, and that Marianne was internally dwell-
ing on the perfections of a man of whose whole
heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she
expected to see in every carriage which drove near
their house.

The necessity of concealing from her mother and
Marianne what had been intrusted in confidence to
herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exer-
tion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On
the contrary, it was a relief to her to be spared
the communication of what would give such afflic-
tion to them, and to be saved likewise from hear-
ing that condemnation of Edward which would
probably flow from the excess of their partial affec-
tion for herself, and which was more than she felt
equal to support.

From their counsel or their conversation she
knew she could receive no assistance ; their tender-
ness and sorrow must add to her distress, while
her self-command would neither receive encourage-
ment from their example nor from their praise.

202 SENHlii AND SENSIBILIT7.

She was stronger alone; and her own good sense
so well supported her that her firmness was as
unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as inva-
riable, as, with regrets so poignant and so fresh,
it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conver-
sation with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an
earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more
reasons than one. She wanted to hear many par-
ticulars of their engagement repeated again; she
wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy
really felt for Edward, whether there were any sin-
cerity in her declaration of tender regard for him;
and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by
her readiness to enter on the matter again, and
her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no
otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which
she very much feared her involuntary agitation in
their morning discourse must have left at least
doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of
her appeared very probable : it was plain that Ed-
ward had always spoken highly in her praise, not
merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her ven-
turing to trust her on so short a personal acquaint-
ance with a secret so confessedly and evidently
important. And even Sir John's joking intelli-
gence must have had some weight. But indeed,
while Elinor remained so well assured within her-
self of being really beloved by Edward, it required

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, 203

no other consideration of probabilities to. make it
natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she
was so, her very confidence was a proof. What
other reason for the disclosure of the affair could
there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it
of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught
to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty
in understanding thus much of her rival's inten-
tions ; and while she was firmly resolved to act by
her as every principle of honor and honesty di-
rected, to combat her own affection for Edward,
and to see him as little as possible, she could not
deny herself the comfort of endeavoring to con-
vince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And
as she could now have nothing more painful to
hear on the subject than had already been told, she
did not mistrust her own ability of going through
a repetition of particulars with composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity
of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was
as well disposed as herself to take advantage of
any that occurred; for the weather was not often
fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk,
where they might most easily separate themselves
from the others; and though they met at least
every other evening either at the Park or cottage,
and chiefly at the former, they could not be sup-
posed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such
a thought would never enter either Sir John or

204 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

Lady Middleton's head; and therefore very little
leisure was ever given for general chat, and none
at all for particular discourse. They met for the
sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together,
playing at cards, or consequences, or any other
game that was sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken
place without affording Elinor any chance of
engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at
the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of
charity, that they would all dine with Lady Mid-
dleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the
club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite
alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles.
Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point
8he had in view in such a party as this was likely
to be, more at liberty among themselves under the
tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middle-
ton than when her husband united them together
in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the
invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permis-
sion, was equally compliant; and Marianne, though
always unwilling to join any of their parties, was
persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to
have her seclude herself from any chance of amuse-
ment, to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton
was happily preserved from the frightful solitude
which had threatened her. The insipidity of the

^

SENSE AND SENSIBILrrY. 205

meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected:
it produced not one novelty of thought or expres-
sion; and nothing could be less interesting than
the whole of their discourse both in the dining-
parlor and drawing-room: to the latter^ the chil-
dren accompanied them ; and while they remained
therci she was too well convinced of the impossi-
bility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it.
They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-
things. The- card-table was then placed; and
Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever
entertained a hope of finding time for conversation
at the Park. They all rose up in preparation for a
round game.

''I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy,
''you are not going to finish poor little Anna-
maria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must
hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight.
And we will make the dear little love some amends
for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope
she will not much mind it."

This hint was enough. Lucy recollected herself
instantly, and replied: '* Indeed you are very much
mistaken, Lady Middleton ; I am only waiting to
know whether you can make your party without
me, or I should have been at my filigree already.
I would not disappoint the little angel for all the
world; and if you want me at the card-table now,
I am resolved to finish the basket after supper. ''

206 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

"Yon are very good^ —I hope it won't hnrt
yonr eyes. Will yon ring the bell for some
working candles? My poor little girl would be
sadly disappointed; I know, if the basket was not
finished to-morrow; for though I told her it cer-
tainly would not| I am sure she depends upon
having it done."

Lucy directly drew her work-table near her, and
reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness
which seemed to infer that she could taste no
greater delight than in making a filigree basket
for a spoiled child.

Lady Middletoh proposed a rubber of cassino to
the others. Ko one made any objection but Mari-
anne, who with her usual inattention to the forms
of general civility exclaimed: *'Your Ladyship
will have the goodness to excuse me, — you know I
detest cards. I shall go to the pianoforte; I have
not touched it since it was tuned." And without
further ceremony she turned away and walked to
the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked Heaven
that she had never made so rude a speech*

" Marianne can never keep long from that in-
strument, you know, ma'am," said Elinor, endeav-
oring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not
much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned
pianoforte I ever heard."

The remaining five were now to draw theix cards*

<

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 207

" Perhaps/' continued Elinor, *' if I should
happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss
Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and
there is so much still to be done to the basket,
that it must be impossible, I think, for her labor,
singly, to finish it this evening. I should like
the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a
share in it.''

" Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you
for your help," cried Lucy, '^forl find there is
more to be done to it than I thought there was;
and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint
dear Anna-maria after all."

" Oh, that would be terrible, indeed! " said Miss
Steele. *'Dear little soul, how I do love her! "

"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to
Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps
you will be as well pleased not to cut in till an-
other rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these pro-
posals, and thus, by a little of that address which
Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained
her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the
same time. Lucy made room for her with ready at-
tention; and the two fair rivals were thus seated,
side by side, at the same table, and with the ut-
most harmony, engaged in forwarding the same
work. The pianoforte, at which Marianne, wrapped
up in her own music and her own thoughts, had

208 SENSE AND SENSIBILITr.

by this time forgotten that anybody was in the
room besides herself^ was luckily so near them
that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely,
under the shelter of its noise, introduce the in*
teresting subject without any risk of being heard
at the card-tably«

i

\

i

I

CHAPTEE XXIV

In a firm though cautious tone^ Elinor thus
began : —

" I should be undeserving of the confidence you
have honored me with, if I felt no desire for its
continuance, or no further curiosity on its subject.
I will not apologize, therefore, for bringing it for-
ward again. '*

" Thank you,'' cried Lucy, warmly, '*for break-
ing the ice : you have set my heart at ease by it ;
for I was, somehow or other, afraid I had offended
you by what I told you that Monday.''

'* Offended me I How could you suppose so?
Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest
sincerity, ^'nothing could be further from my in-
tention than to give you such an idea. Could you
have a motive for the trust, that was not honorable
and flattering to me? "

'*And yet, I do assure you," replied Lucy, her
little sharp eyes full of meaning, ^^ there seemed to
me to be a coldness and displeasure in your man-
ner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt
sure that you was angry with me; and have been

VOL. I. — 14

i

210 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

quarrelliBg with myself ever since for haying took
such a liberty as to trouble you with my a££airs.
But I am very glad to find it was only my own
fancy, and that you do not really blame me. If
you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve
my hearty by speaking to you of what I am always
thinking of every moment of my life, your compas-
sion would make you overlook everything else, I
am sure."

'^ Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very
great relief to you to acknowledge your situation
to me, and be assured that you shall never have
reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortu-
nate one ; you seem to me to be surrounded with
difficulties; and you will have need of all your
mutual affection to support you under them* Mr.
Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his
mother."

^'He has only two thousand pounds of his own:
it would be madness to marry upon that; though,
for my own part, I could give up every prospect of
more without a sigh. I have been always used to
a very small income, and could struggle with any
poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the
selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that
his mother might give him, if he married to please
her. We must wait, it may be for many years.
With almost every other man in the world, it
would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's

i

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 211

affection and constancy nothing can deprive me
of, I know."

"That conviction must be everything to you;
and he is, undoubtedly, supported by the same
trust in yours. If the strength of your reciprocal
attachment had failed, as between many people
and under many circumstances it naturally would
during a four years' engagement, your situation
would have been pitiable indeed."

Lucy here looked up ; but Elinor was careful in
guarding her countenance from every expression
that could give her words a suspicious tendency.

"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been
pretty well put to the test by our long, very long
absence since we were first engaged, and it has
stood the trial so well that I should be unpardon-
able to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has
never gave me one moment's alarm on that account
from the first."

Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at
this assertion.

Lucy went on. " I am rather of a jealous tem-
per, too, by nature; and from our different situa-
tions in life, from his being so much more in the
world than me, and our continual separation, I was
enough inclined for suspicion to have found out
the truth in an instant, if there had been the
slightest alteration in his behavior to me when
we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not

212 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

account for^ or if he had talked more of one lady
than another, or seemed in any respect less happy
at Longstaple than he used to he. I do not mean
to say that I am particularly ohservant or quick-
sighted in general, hut in such a case I am sure
I could not he deceived."

''All this/' thought Elinor, ''is very pretty,
hut it can impose upon neither of us.''

"But what," said she, after a short silence,
"are your views? or have you none hut that of
waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a melan-
choly and shocking extremity? Is her son deter-
mined to suhmit to this, and to all the tediousness
of the many years of suspense in which it may
involve you, rather than run the risk of her dis-
pleasure for a while hy owning the truth? "

" If we could he certain that it would he only
for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very head-
strong, proud woman, and in her first fit of anger
upon hearing it would very likely s^ure every-
thing to Eohert; and the idea of that, for Ed-
ward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for
hasty measures."

" And for your own sake too, or you are carry-
ing your disinterestedness heyond reason/'

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

"Do you know Mr. Rohert Ferrars?" asked
Elinor.

"Not at all, — I never saw him; hut I fancy he

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 213

is very unlike his brother^ — siHy^ and a great
coxcomb.''

'^ A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele,
whose ear had caught those words by a sudden
pause in Marianne's music. '^Oh, they are talk-
ing of their favorite beaux, I dare say.''

"No, sister," cried Lucy, "you are mis-
taken there, — our favorite beaux are not great
coxcombs."

" I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is
not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; "for
he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young
men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a
sly little creature, there is no finding out who she
likes."

"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly
round at them, " I dare say Lucy's beau is
quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss
Dashwood's."

Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit
her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mu-
tual silence took place for some time. Lucy first
put an end to it by saying, in a lower tone, though
Marianne was then giving them the powerful pro-
tection of a very magnificent concerto, —

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which
has lately come into my head for bringing matters
to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the
secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say

214 SENSE AND SENSIBILirY.

you have seen enougli of Edward to know that he
would prefer the church to every other profession;
now my plan is^ that he should take orders as soon
as he can ; and then^ through your interest, which
I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of
friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard
to me, your brother might be persuaded to give
him Norland living, which I understand is a very
good one, and the present incumbent not likely to
live a great while. That would be enough for us
to marry upon, and we might trust to time and
chance for the rest."

'*! should be always happy," replied Elinor,
''to show any mark of my esteem and friendship
for Mr. Ferrars ; but do not you perceive that my
interest on such an occasion would be perfectly
unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dash-
wood, — that must be recommendation enough to
her husband."

*'But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much
approve of Edward^s going into orders."

''Then I rather suspect that my interest would
do very little."

They were again silent for many minutes. At
length Lucy exclaimed, with a deep sigh, —

" I believe it would be the wisest way to put an
end to the business at once by dissolving the en-
gagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on
every side, that though it would make us miserable

i

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 215

for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the
fcud. But you will not give me your advice, Miss
Dash wood ? "

"]!To,'' answered Elinor, with a smile, which
concealed very agitated feelings; *^on such a sub-
ject I certainly will not. You know very well
that my opinion would have no weight with you,
unless it were on the side of your wishes."

"Indeed you wrong me,'* replied Lucy, with
great solemnity. "I know nobody of whose judg-
ment I think so highly as I do of yours ; and I do
really believe that if you was to say to me, ' I ad-
vise you by all means to put an end to your en-
gagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more
for the happiness of both of you, ' I should resolve
upon doing it immediately.''

Elinor blushed for the. insincerity of Edward's
future wife, and replied: ''This compliment would
effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on
the subject had I formed one. It raises my influ-
ence much too high: the power of dividing two
people so tenderly attached is too much for an in-
different person."

'"Tis because you are an indifferentjpifirjSQn,''
said Lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular
stress on those words, '' that your judgment might
justly have such weight with me. If you could be
supposed to be biassed in any respect by your own
feelings, your opinion would not be worth having."

216 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to
this, lest they might provoke each other to an un-
suitahle increase of ease and unreserve j and was
even partly determined never to mention the sub-
ject again. Another pause, therefore, of many
minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and
Lucy was still the first to end it.

''Shall you he in town this winter, Miss Dash-
wood ? '' said she, with all her accustomary
complacency.

"Certainly not."

" I am sorry for that, " returned the other, while
her eyes brightened at the information; '' it would
have gave me such pleasure to meet you there!
But I dare say you will go for all that. To be
sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come
to them."

"It will not be in my power to accept their
invitation if they do."

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended
upon meeting you there. Anne and me are to go
the latter end of January to some relations who
have been wanting us to visit them these several
years. But I only go for the sake of seeing Ed-
ward. He will be there in February, otherwise
London would have no charms for me j I have not
spirits for it."

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the
conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential

SENSE AND SENSIBIUTY. 217

discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end;
to which hoth of them submitted without any re-
luctance, for nothing had been said on either side
to make them dislike each other less than they had
done before;, and Elinor sat down to the card-table
with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was
not only without affection for the person who was
to be his wife, but that he had not even the chance
of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sin-
cere affection on her side would have given; for
self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep
a man to an engagement of which she seemed so
thoroughly aware that he was weary.

Prom this time the subject was never revived by
Elinor; and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom
missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was
particularly careful to inform her confidante of her
happiness whenever she received a letter from Ed-
ward, it was treated by the former with calmness
and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility
would allow; for she felt such conversations to be
an indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and
which were dangerous to herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was
lengthened far beyond what the first invitation im-
plied. Their favor increased; they could not be
spared; Sir John would not hear of their going;
and in spite of their numerous and long arranged
engagements in Exeter^ in spite of the absolute

-v
^

218 SENSE AND SENSIBILITr.

necessity of their returning to fulfil them imme*
which was in full force at the end of every

^' ydiately, whi

N^ /< week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two

r^ (V months at the Park, and to assist in the due cele-

" '^ bration of that festival which requires a more than

ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to

proclaim its importance.

M «*->»- y Til - T^7r>- <«s7 ^

r

'^ ,f>T^*^ '-^c./^ i»« v«/«7 ;o\ «» ^ «*»*crv«f"T;'^

/ >*

.-s^

_ V / , -v*\ v«&»^«. ^•••' 'J" ittf'^Ty 'eft 1 1

\- --

♦ -J .'

.\N

J^ *- '."**•"• -^^ C r> '" *" .^ '"" -^ . T ** >^ ^ '^ *^

. r> ^

CHAPTEE XXV.

Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spend"
ing a large portion of the year at the houses of her
children and friends, she was not without a settled
habitation of her own. Since the death of . her
husband, who had traded with success in a less
elegant part of the town, she had resided every
winter in a house in one of the streets near Port-
man Square. Towards this home she began^ on
the approach of January, to turn her thoughts;
and thither she one day abruptly, and very unex-
pectedly by them, asked the elder Miss Dashwoods
to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the
varying complexion of her sister, and the animated
look which spoke no indifference to the plan, im-
mediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for
both, in which she believed herself to be speaking
their united inclinations. The reason alleged was
their determined resolution of not leaving their
mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings
received the refusal with some surprise, and re-
peated her invitation immediately.

''Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare
you very well, and I do beg you will favor me with

^20

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

your company, for I Ve quite set my heart upon It.
Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to
me, for I sha'n't put myself at all out of my way
for you. It will only be sending Betty by the
coach, and I hope I can afford that. We three
shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and
when we are in town, if you do not like to go
wherever I do, well and good, you may always go
with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother
will not object to it; for I have had such good
luck in getting my own children ofiE my hands
that she will think me a very fit person to have
the charge of you ; and if I don't get one of you
at least well married before I have done with you,
it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good
word for you to all the young men, you may de-
pend upon it."

"I have a notion," said Sir John, **that Miss
Marianne would not object to such a scheme if her
eldest sister would come into it. It is very hard,
indeed, that she should not have a little pleasure,
because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I
would advise you two to set off for town, when you
are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss
Dashwood about it."

«*!N"ay," cried Mrs. Jennings, **I am sure I
shall be monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's com-
pany, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only
the more tile merrier say I, and I thought it would

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 221

be more comfortable for them to be together; be-
cause if they got tired of me they might talk to
one another, and laugh at my odd ways behind my
back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I
must have. Lord bless me ! how do you think I can
live poking by myself, — I who have been always
used, till this winter, to have Charlotte with me I
Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon
the bargain; and if Miss Dashwood will change
her mind by and by, why, zo much the better.''

"I thank you, ma'am, wncerely thank you,"
said Marianne, with warmth; ''your invitation
has insured my gratitude forever; and it would
give me such happiness, yes*, almost the greatest
happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it.
But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, — I
feel the justice of what Elinor has urged; and if
she were to be made less hajipy, less comfortable
by our absence, — oh, no, nothing should tempt
me to leave her. It should not, must not be a
struggle."

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs.
Dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and
Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to
what indifference to almost everything else she was
carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby
again^ made no further direct opposition to the
plan, and merely referred it to her mother's deci-
sion, from whom, however, she scarcely expected to

\

1

222 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

receive any support in her endeavor to prevent a
visit which she could not approve of for Marianne,
and which on her own account she had particular
reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desir-
ous of, her mother would he eager to promote:
she could not expect to influence the latter to cau-
tiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which
she had never heen ahle to inspire her with dis-
trust; and she dared not explain the motive of her
own disinclination for going to London. That
Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly ac-
quainted with Mrs. Jennings's manners, and inva-
riably disgusted by them, should overlook every
inconvenience of that kind, should disregard what-
ever must be most wounding to her irritable feel-
ings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a
proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that
object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had
passed, was not prepared to witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dash-
wood, persuaded that such an excursion would be
productive of much amusement to both her daugh-
ters, and perceiving, through all her affectionate at-
tention to herself, how much the heart of Marianne
was in it, would not hear of their declining the
offer upon her account; insisted on their both ac-
cepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with
her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that
would accrue to them all from this separation.

N

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 223

" I am delighted with the plan/' she cried; ** it
is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I
shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
When you and the Middletons are gone^ we shall
go on so quietly and happily together with our
books and our music! You will find Margaret so
improved when you come back again! And I have
a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms, too,
which may now be performed without inconven-
ience to any one. It is very right that you should
go to town ; I would have every young woman of
your condition in life acquainted with the manners
and amusements of London. You will be under
the care of a motherly, good sort of woman,' of
whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And
in all probability you will see your brother;
and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of
his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot
bear to have you so wholly estranged from each
other."

** Though with your usual anxiety for our hap-
piness,'' said Elinor, ''you have been obviating
every impediment to the present scheme which
occurred to you, there is still one objection which
in my opinion cannot be so easily removed.''

Marianne's countenance sunk.

"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my
dear, prudent Elinor going to suggest? What
formidable oostacle is she now to bring forward?

224 SENSE AND SENSIBILTIT.

Do not let me hear a word about the expense
of it."

"My objection is this: though I think rery
well of Mrs. Jennings's heart, she is not a woman
whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose .
protection will give us consequence."

"That is very true," replied her mother; " but
of her society separately from that of other people,
you will scarcely have anything at all, and you
will almost always appear in public with Lady
Middleton."

"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of
Mrs. Jennings," said Marianne, "at least it need
not prevent my accepting her invitation. I have
no such scrviples; and I am sure I could put up
with every unpleasantness of that kind with very
little effort."

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of
indifference towards the manners of a person to
whom she had often had difficulty in persuading
Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and '
resolved within herself that if her sister persisted
in going, she would go likewise, as she did not
think it proper that Marianne should be left to the
sole guidance of her own judgment, or, that Mrs.
Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of
Marianne, for all the comfort of her domestic
hours. To this determination she was the more
easily reconciled by recollecting that Edward

226

)e in town
t, without

previously

Dashwood;
1 will have
especially
1 ever con-
uld foresee
'ould, per-
quftintanc*

Ditanity of
indeiic« OD
, that the
truth were
igh almost

begin hei
1: "I like

always b«
he family,
w whether

nothing,
ment, and
well have

vas finally
folly M-

226 SEN

cepted. Mis. J
witli a great de:
kindness and ca:
merely to her.
man whose pre
being alone, the
of inhabitants i
Lady Midaetoi
lighted, which
her way; and i
Lucy, they had
W this Intel lige

Blinor suhm
rouateracted hei
(.he had expecte<
it was now a
went to town ot
so thoroughly
Biater exhilarate
restored to all 1
to more than h
disaatiefied with
berself to distru

Marianne's ji
happiness, so (
spirits, and her
willingnesa to i
storative to ci
pattipg bet giic

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 227

iBother's affliction was bardly less; and Elinor
the only one of the three who seemed to con-
ir the separation as anything short of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in
January. The Middletons were to follow in about
a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at
the Park, and were to quit it only with the rest
of the family.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with
Mrs. Jennings, and beginning a journey to Lon-
don under her protection, and as her guest, with-
out wondering at ' her own situation, so short
had their acquaintance with that lady been, ao
wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition,
and so many had been her objections against such
a measure only a few days before I But these
objections had all, with that happy ardor of youth
which Marianne and her mother equally shared,
been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite
of every occasional doubt of Willoughby's con-
stancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful
expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed
in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how
blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own
state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly
she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's
situation to have the same animating object in
view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very
short time, however, must now decide what Wil-
loughby's intentions were; in all probability he
was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to

/

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 229

be gone declared her dependence on finding him
there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon
gaining every new light as to his character
which her own observation or the intelligence
of others could give her, but likewise upon watch-
ing his behavior to her sister with such zealous
attention as to ascertain what he was and what he
meant, before many meetings had taken place.
Should the result of her observations be unfavor-
able, she was determined at all events to open the
eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her
exertions would be of a different nature, — she
must then learn to avoid every selfish compari-
son, and banish every regret which might lessen
her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey; and
Marianne's behavior, as they travelled, was a
happy specimen of what her future complaisance
and companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be
expected to be. She sat in silence almost all the
way, wrapped in her own meditations, and scarcely
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object
of picturesque beauty within their view drew from
her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed
to her sister. To atone for this conduct, therefore,
Elinor took immediate possession of the post of
civility which she had assigned herself, behaved
with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,
talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to

230 SENSE AM) SEKSIBILirr.

her whenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings^ on
her side^ treated them hoth with all possible kind-
ness^ was solicitous on every occasion for their
ease and enjoyment^ and only disturbed that she
could not make them choose their own dinners at
the inn^ nor extort a confession of their preferring
salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets.
They reached town by three o'clock the third day,
glad to be released, after such a journey, from the
confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all
the luxury of a good fire.

The house was handsome and handsomely fitted
up; and the young ladies were immediately put in
possession of a very comfortable apartment. It
had formerly been Charlotte's ; and over the man-
telpiece still hung a landscape in colored silks
of her performance, in proof of her having spent
seven years at a great school in town to some
effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two
hours from their arrival, Elinor determined to em-
ploy the interval in writing to her mother, and sat
down for that purpose. In a few moments Mtti-
anne did the same, ^'/am writing home, Mari-
anne," said Elinor; '<had not you better defer
your letter for a day or two? "

^' I am not going to write to my motheri" if-
plied Marianne, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid
any further inquiry. Elinor said no more : it Un^'

SENSE AND 8BIH9IBILITY. 231

mediately struck her that she must then be writing
to Willoughby; and the conclusion which as in-
stantly followed was, that however mysteriously
they might wish to conduct the aftair, they must
be engaged. This conviction, though not entirely
satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued
her letter with greater alacrity. Marianne's was
finished in a very few minutes ; in length it could
be no more than a note; it was then folded up,
sealed, and directed with eag^r rapidity. Elinor
thought she could distinguish a large W in the
direction; and no sooner was it complete than
Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman
who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her
to the two-penny post. This decided the matter
at once.

Her spirits still continued very high; but there
was a flutter in them which prevented their giving
much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation
increased as the evening drew on. She could
scarcely eat any dinner; and when they afterwards
returned to the drawing-room, seemed anxiously
listening to the sound of every carriage.

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs.
Jennings, by being much engaged in her own
room, could see little of what was passing. The
tea-things were brought in, and already had Mari-
anne been disappointed more than once by a rap
at a neighboring door, when a loud one was sud'

232 SENSE Amy SEtJSIBILirY.

denly beaxd which could not be mistaken for one
at any other house. Elinor felt secure of its an*
nouncing Willoughby's approach; and Marianne,
starting up, moved towards the door. Everything
was silent: this could not be borne many seconds;
she opened the door, advanced a few steps towards
the stairs, and after listening half a minute, re-
turned into the room in all the agitation which a
conviction of having heard him would naturally
produce. In the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, ^^Oh,
Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!" and
seemed almost ready to throw herself into his
arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calm-
ness, and she imi&ediately left the room. Elinor
was disappointed too, but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon insured his welcome
with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a
man so partial to her sister should perceive that
she experienced nothing but grief and disappoint-
ment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it
was not unnoticed by him; that he even observed
Marianne, as she quitted the room, with such as-
tonishment and concern as hardly left him the
recollection of what civility demanded towards
herself.

'* Is your sister ill? " said he.

Elinor answered, in some distress, that she was;

k

J

SENSE AND SENSIBILITr. 233

and then talked of headaches, low spirits^ and over-
fatigues^ and of everything to which she could
decently attribute her sister's behavior.

He heard her with the most earnest attention;
but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on
the subject, and Ibegan directly to speak of his
pleasure at seeing them in London, making the
usual inquiries about their journey and the friends
they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little inter-
est on either side, they continued to talk; both of
them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both en-
gaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to
ask whether Willoughby were then in town, but
she was afraid of giving him pain by any inquiry
after his rival; and at length, ]by way of saying
something, she asked if he had been in London
ever since she had seen him last. **Yes," he
replied, with some embarrassment, '^ almost ever
since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a
few days, but it has never been in my power to
return to Barton. *'

This, and the manner in which it was said, im-
mediately brought back to her remembrance all
the circumstances of his quitting that place, with
the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to
Mrs. Jennings ; and she was fearful that her ques-
tion had implied much' more curiosity on the sub*
ject than she had ever felt.

A I

i

)

234 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. ,

Mrs. Jennings soon came in. ''Oh, Colonel/' ^

said she, with her usy^l noisy cheerfulness, '' I am \

monstrous glad to see you, — sorry I could not
come hef ore, — beg your pardon, — but I have been
forced to look about me a little, and settle my
matters ; for it is a long while since I have been
at home, and you know one has always a world of
little odd things to do after one has been away for
any time; and then I have had Cartwright to set-
tle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever
since dinner! But pray. Colonel, how came you to
conjure out that I should be in town to-day? ''

''I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr.
Palmer's, where I have been dining.''

''Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at
their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant
you she is a fine size by this time."

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well; and I am
commissioned to tell you that you will certainly
see her to-morrow."

"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well,
Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me,
you see, — that is, you see but one of them now,
but there is another somewhere. Your friend Miss
Marianne, too, which you will not be sorry to hear.
I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will
do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing
to be young and handsome. Well, I was young
once, but I never was very handsome, — worse luck

I
I

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 285

for me. However, I got a very good hu8l>aiid| and
I don't know what the greatest beauty can do
more. Ah, poor man! he has been dead these
eight years and better. But, Colonel, where have
you been to since we parted? And how does your
business go on? Come, come, let 's have no secrets
among friends."

He replied with hi. accustomary mildnew to all
her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any.
Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne
was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance Colonel Brandon became
more thoughtful and silent than he had been be-
fore, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him
to stay long. "So other visitor appeared that even-
ing, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to
go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered
spirits and happy looks. The disappointment of
the evening before seemed forgotten in the expec-
tation of what was to happen that day. They had
not long finished their breakfast before Mrs.
Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a
few minutes she came laughing into the room, — so
delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say
whether she received most pleasure from meeting
her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again; so
«urprised at their coining to town, though it was
what she had rather expected all along; so angry

236 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

at their accepting her mother's invitation aftei
haying declined her own, though at the same
time she would never have forgiven them if they
had not come!

''Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see yeu,"
«aid she. '* What do you think he said when he
heard of your coming with mamma? I forget
what it was now, but it was something so droll I "

After an hour or two spent in what her mother
called comfortable chat, or, in other words, in evezy
variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaint-
ance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter
without cause on Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed
by the latter that they should all accompany her
to some shops, where she had business that mom«
ing, to which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily
consented, as having likewise some purchases to
make themselves; and Marianne, though declining
it at first, was induced to go likewise.

Wherever they went she was evidently always
on the watch. In Bond Street, especially, where
much of their business lay, her eyes were in con-
stant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party
were engaged her mind was equally abstracted from
everything actually before them, from all that
interested and occupied the others. Eestless and
dissatisfied everywhere, her sister could never ob*"
tain her opinion of any article of purchase, how-
ever it might equally concern them both: aha

SEM8E ASD SINSIBILTIT. 237

received no pleMure liom anything; was only
impatient to be at home again^ and could with
difficulty goyem her vexation at the tediousness of
Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by everything
pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all,
could determine on none, and dawdled away her
time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned
home; and no sooner had they entered the house
than Marianne flew eagerly upstairs; and when
Elinor followed, she found her turning from the
table with a sorrowful countenance which declared
that no Willoughby had been there.

'' Has no letter been left here for me since we
went out?" said she to the footman, who then
entered with the parcels. She was answered in
the negative. ''Are you quite sure of it?" she
replied. ''Are you certain that no servant, no
porter, has left any letter or note?"

The man replied that none had.

" How very odd! " said she, in a low and disap-
pointed voice, as she turned away to the window.

"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within
herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness. "If
she had not known him to be in town, she would
not have written to him as she did, she would
have written to Combe Magna; and if he is in
town, how odd that he should neither come nor
write I Oh, my dear mother, you must be wrong

'4* -

238 SENSE KS^ 8iin»BiLrrT.

in pennitting an engagement between a daughter
80 young, a man so little known, to be carried on
in 80 doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to
inquire; but how will my interference be borne? ^*

She determined, after some consideration, that if
appearances continued many days longer as un-
pleasant as they now were, she would represent in
the strongest manner to her mother the necessity
of some serious inquiry into the affair.

Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jen-
nings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met
and invited in the morning, dined with them.
The former left them soon after tea to fulfil her
evening engagements; and Elinor was obliged to
assist in making a whist-table for the others.
Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she
would never learn the game; but though her time
was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was
by no means more productive of pleasure to her
than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety
of expectation and the pain of disappointment.
She sometimes endeavored for a few minutes to
read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she
returned to the more interesting employment of
walking backwards and forwards across the room,
pausing for a moment whenever she came to the
window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-
expected rap.

^

?

?

CHAPTEE XXVn.

1

^ ''If this open weather holds much longer," said

I Mrs. Jennings, when they met at breakfast the

' following morning, ''Sir John will not like leav-

r ing Barton next week; H is a sad thing for sports-

men to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls! I
always pity them when they do; they seem to
take it so much to heart.''

"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful
voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to
examine the day. ''I had not thought of that»
This weather will keep many sportsmen in the
country."

It was a lucky recollection ; all her good spirits
were restored by it. '' It is charming weather for
them indeed," she continued, as she sat down to
the breakfast-table with a happy countenance.
''How much they must enjoy it! But," with a
little return of anxiety, "it cannot be expected to
last long. At this time of the year, and after such
a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little
more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all
probability with seyerity. In another day or two^

240 SENSE AND SENSIBrLITY.

perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last
longer, — nay, perhaps it may freeze to-night! "

"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent
Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts
as clearly as she did, " I dare say we shall have
Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end
of next week.'*

" Ay, my dear, I '11 warrant you we do. Mary
always has her own way."

''And now," silently conjectured Elinor, ''she
will write to Combe by this day's post."

But if she did, the letter was written and sent
away with a privacy which eluded all her watch-,
fulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth
of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling
thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw
Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncom-
fortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits;
happy in the mildness of the weather, and still
happier in her expectation of a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards
at the houses of Mrs. Jennings's acquaintance, to
inform them of her being in town; and Marianne
was all the time busy in observing the direc-
tion of the wind, watching the variations of the
sky, and imagining an alteration in the air.

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the
morning, Elinor? There seems to me a very decided
difference. 1 can hardly keep my hands warm

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 241

even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I
think. The clouds seem parting too; the sun will
be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear
afternoon."

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but
Marianne persevered, and saw every night in the
brightness of the fire, and every morning in the
appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symp-
toms of approaching frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be
dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living
and set of acquaintance, than with her behavior to
themselves, which was invariably kind. Every-
thing in her household arrangements was conducted
on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old
city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret,
she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom
an introduction could at all discompose the feel-
ings of her young companions. Pleased to find
herself more bomfortably situated in that particular
than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to
compound for the want of much real enjoyment
from any of their evening parties, which, whether
at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could
have little to amuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation
to the house, was with them almost every day: he
came to look at Marianne, and talk to Elinor, who
often derived more satisfaction from conveiBing

VOL. I. — 16

242 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

with him than from any other daily occurrence,
but who saw at the same time, with much con-
cern, his continued regard for her sister* She
feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved
her to see the earnestness with which he often
watched Marianne; and his spirits were certainly
worse than when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival it became cer-
tain that Willoughby was also arrived. His card
was on the table when they came in from the
morning's drive.

^'Oood God!" cried Marianne, '^he has been
here while we were out." Elinor, rejoiced to be
assured of his being in London, now ventured to
say, '< Depend upon it, he will call again to-mor-
row." But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her,
and, on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with the
precious card.

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor,
restored to those of her sister all, and more than
all, their former agitation. From this moment
her mind was never quiet; the expectation of see-
ing him every hour of the day made her unfit for
anything. She insisted on being left behind,
the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be
passing in Berkeley Street during their absence;
but a moment's glance at her sister, when they re-
turned, was enough to inform her that Willoughby

SENSE AND SBKSIBIUTT. 243

had paid no second visit there. A note was just
then brought in, and laid on the table.

''For mel " cried Marianne, stepping hastily
forward.

''No, ma'am, for my mistress.''

But Marianne, not conyinced, took it instantly
up.

"It is, indeed, for Mrs. Jennings; how
provoking! "

"You are expecting a letter, then?" said Eli-
nor, unable to be longer silent.

"Yes, a little, — not much."

After a short pause, "You have no confidence in
me, Marianne."

"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from you, — you
who have confidence in no one I "

"Me!" returned Elinor, in some confusion;
"indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell."

"Nor I," answered Marianne, with energy;
" our situations then are alike. We have neither
of us anything to tell, — you, because you commu-
nicate; and I, because I conceal nothing."

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in
herself, which she was not at liberty to do away,
knew not how, under such circumstances, to press
for greater openness in Marianne.

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared; and the note being
given her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady
Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit

<

244 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

Street the night before, and requesting the com-
pany of her mother and cousins the following
evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a vio-
lent cold on her own, prevented their calling in
Berkeley Street. The invitation was accepted;
but when the hour of appointment drew near, ne-
cessary as it was, in common civility, to Mrs. Jen-
nings that they should both attend her on such a
visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her
sister to go ; for still she had seen nothing of Wil-
loughby, and therefore was not more indisposed
for amusement abroad than unwilling to run the
risk of his calling again in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that
disposition is not materially altered by a change of
abode; for although scarcely settled in town, Sir
John had contrived to collect around him nearly
twenty young people, and to amuse them with a
ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady
Middleton did not approve. In the country an
unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in
London, where the reputation of elegance was
more important and less easily obtained, it was
risking too much for the gratification of a few girls,
to have it known that Lady Middleton had given a
small dance, of eight or nine couples, with two
violins, and a mere sideboard collation.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from
the former, whom they had not seen before since

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 245

their arriyal in town, as he was careful to avoid
the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-
law, and therefore never came near her, they re-
ceived no mark of recognition on their entrance.
He looked at them slightly, without seeming to
know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs.
Jennings from the other side of the room. Mari-
anne gave one glance round the apartment as she
entered, — it was enough, he was not there; and
she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or
communicate pleasure. After they had been as-
sembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered
towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his sur-
prise on seeing them in town, though Colonel
Brandon had been first informed of their arrival
at his house, and he had himself said something
very droll on hearing that they were to come.

'* I thought you were both in Devonshire, '^ said
he.

<< Did you? " replied Elinor.

" When do you go back again? "

''I do not know." And thus ended their
discourse.

Kever had Marianne been so unwilling to dance
in her life as she was that evening, and never so
much fatigued by the exercise. She complained of
it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the
reason of all that very well: if a certain person.

(^

246 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

who shall be nameless, had been there, you would
not have been a bit tired; and, to say the truth,
it was not very pretty of him not to give you the
meeting when he was invited."

"Invited!'' cried Marianne.

''So my daughter Middleton told me; for it
seems Sir John met him somewhere in the street
this morning." Marianne said no more, but
looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situa-
tion to be doing something that might lead to her
sister's relief, Elinor resolved to write the next
morning to her mother, and hoped, by awakening
her fears for the health of Marianne, to procure
those inquiries which had been so long delayed;
and she was still more eagerly bent on this meas-
^ ure, by perceiving, after breakfast on the morrow,
that Marianne was again writing to Willoughby,
for she could not suppose it to be to any other

^*" person

About the middle of the day Mrs. Jennings
went out by herself on business, and Elinor began
her letter directly, while Marianne, too restless for
employment, too anxious for conversation, walked
from one window to the other, or sat down by the
fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very
earnest in her application to her mother; relat-
ing all that had passed, her suspicions of Wil-
loughby's inconstancy; urging her, by every plea
of duty and affection, to demand from Marianne

SBN8B ASD SENSIBILrrT. 247

an account dt her real situation with respect
to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap
foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was an-
nounced. Marianne, who had seen him from the
window, and who hated company of any kind, left
the room before he entered it. He looked more
than usually grave; and though expressing satis-
faction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he
had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for
some time without saying a word. Elinor, per-
suaded that he had some communication to make
in which her sister was concerned, impatiently ex-
pected its opening. It was not the first time oi
her feeling the same kind of conviction; for more
than once before, beginning with the observation
of, "Your sister looks unwell to-day," or ''Your
sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on
the point either of disclosing or of inquiring
something particular about her. After a pause of
several minutes their silence was broken by his
asking her, in a voice of some agitation, when he
was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a
brother. Elinor was not prepared for such a ques-
tion, and having no answer ready, was obliged to
adopt the simple and common expedient of asking
what he meant. He tried to smile, as he replied :
'' Your sister's engagement to Mr. Willoughby is
very generally known."

248 SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT.

'^It cannot be generally known," returned Ell-
lor, " for her own family do not know it."

He looked surprised, and said: ^'I beg your
«rdon, I am afraid my inquiry has been imperti-
nent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended,
as they openly correspond, and their marriage is
universally talked of."

"How can that be? By whom can you have
heard it mentioned?"

" By many, — by some of whom you know noth-
ing, by others with whom you are most intimate,
Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons.
But still I might not have believed it — for where
the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be con-
vinced, it will always find something to support
its doubts — if I had not, when the servant let me
in to-day, accidentally seen a letter in his hand,
directed to Mr. Willoughby, in your sister's writ-
ing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced be-
fore I could ask the question. Is everything
finally settled? Is it impossible to — But I
have no right, and I could have no chance of suc-
ceeding. Excuse me. Miss Dashwood. I believe
I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly
know what to do, and on your prudence I have the
strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all ab-
solutely resolved on ; that any attempt — that, in
short, concealment, if concealment be possible,
is all that remains."

SENSE AND SENSIBIUTY. 249

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct
avowal of his love for her sister, a£Eected her very
much. She was not immediately ahle to say any-
thing; and even when her spirits were recovered,
she debated for a short time on the answer it would
be most proper to give. The real state of things
between Willoughby and her sister was so little
known to herself that in endeavoring to explain
it, she might be as liable to say too mnch as too
little. Yet, as she was convinced that Marianne's
afEection for Willoughby could leave no hope of
Colonel Brandon's success, whatever the event of
that affection might be, and at the same time
wished to shield her conduct from censure, she
thought it most prudent and kind, after some con-
sideration, to say more than she really knew or
believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though
she had never been informed by themselves of the
terms on which they stood with each other, of
their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of
their correspondence she was not astonished to
hear.

He listened to her with silent attention; and on
her ceasing to speak, roi^e directly from his seat,
and after saying in a voice of emotion, *'To your
sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Wil-
loughby that he may endeavor to deserve her,"
took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this

250 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

conversation to lessen the uneasiness of her mind
on other points; she was left^ on the contrary,
with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon^s
unhappinessy and was prevented even from wishing
it removed^ by her anxiety for the very event that
must confirm it.

SENSE AND SENSIBILIT7

PART SXOOND

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

CHAPTER L

THING occurred during the next three
or four days to make Elinor regret what
she had done in applying to her mother;
for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They
were engaged about the end of that time to attend
Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jen-
nings was kept away by the indisposition of her
youngest daughter; and for this party Marianne,
wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and
seeming equally Indifferent whether she went or
stayed, prepared, without one look of hope or one
expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-
room fire after tea till the moment of Lady Mid-
dleton's arrival, without once stirring from her
seat or altering her attitude, lost in her own
thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence;

6 SENSE AND SENSIBELITY.

and when at last thej were told that Ladj Mid-
dleton waited for them at the door, she started at
if she had forgotten that any one was esipeeted.

They arrived in due time at the place of destina-
tion; and as soon as the string of carriages before
them would allow, alighted, ascended the staizii
heard their names announced from one landing-
place to another in an audible voice, and entered
a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company,
and insufferably hot. When they had paid their
tribute of politeness by courtesying to the lady of
the house, they were permitted to mingle in the
crowd, and take their share of the heat and incon-
venience to which their arrival must necessarily
add. After some time spent in saying little and
doing less. Lady Middleton sat down to cassino;
and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving
about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs
placed themselves at no great distance from the
table.

They had not remained in this manner long,
before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing
within a few yards of them, in earnest conversa-
tion with a very fashionable-looking young woman«
She soon caught his eye, and he immediately
bowed, but without attempting to speak to her,
or to approach Marianne, though he could not but
see her, and then continued his discourse with the
same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Mari-

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 7

ftime, to see whether it could be unobserved by
her. At that moment she first perceived him;
and her whole countenance glowing with sudden
delight^ she would have moved towards him in-
stantly^ had not her sister caught hold of her.

'^ Good heavens! ^' she exclaimed, ''he is there,
— he is there! Oh, why does he not look at me?
Why cannot I speak to him? "

"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and
do not betray what you feel to everybody present.
Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

This, however, was more than she could believe
herself; and to be composed at such a moment was
not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was be-
yond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience
which affected every feature.

At last he turned round again, and regarded
them both; she started up, and pronouncing his
name in a tone of affection, held out her hand f >
him. He approached; and addressing himseif
rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to
avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her
attitude, inquired, in a hurried manner, after Mrs.
Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in
town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind
by such an address, and was unable to say a word.
But the feelings of her sister were instantly ex-
pressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she
exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, — *

8 SENSE AND SENSIBILIIT.

'^ Oood God, Willoughby, what is the meaning
of this? Have you not received my letters? Will
you not shake hands with me?"

He could not then avoid it; but her touch
seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only
for a moment. During all this time he was evi-
dently struggling for composure. Elinor watched
his countenance, and saw its expression becoming
more tranquil. After a moment's pause he spoke
with calmness, —

^^ I did myself the honor of calling in Berkeley
Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that
I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and
Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost,
I hope."

''But have you not received my notes?" cried
Marianne, in the wildest anxiety. ''Here is some
mistake, I am sure, — some dreadful mistake.
What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Wil-
loughby, — for Heaven's sake, tell me; what is
the matter? "

He made no reply; his complexion changed,
and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on
catching the eye of tne young lady with whom he
had been previously talking, he felt the necessity
of instant exertion, he recovered himself again,
and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of re-
ceiving the information of your arrival in town
which you were so good as to send me," turned

X

SENSE AND SENSIBILITy. 9

hastily away with a slight bow^ and joined his
friend.

Marianne^ now looking dreadfully white, and
unable to stand, sunk into her chair; and Elinor,
expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to
screen her from the observation of others, while
reviving her with lavender water.

<<Qt) to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she
could speak, '^ and force him to come to me. Tell
him I must see him again, — must speak to him
instantly. I cannot rest — I shall not have a mo-
ment's peace till this is explained — some dreadful
misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this
moment! "

^'How can that be done? Ko, my dearest
Marianne, you must wait. This is not a place for
explanations. Wait only till to-morrow."

With difficulty, however, could she prevent her
from following him herself; and to persuade her
to check her agitation, to wait at least, with the
appearance of composure, till she might speak to
him with more privacy and more efEect, was im-
possible, for Marianne continued incessantly to
give way in a low voice to the misery of her feel-
ings by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short
time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the
door towards the staircase; and telling Marianne
that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speak-
ing to him again that eveniAg, as a fresh argument

10 . SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT.

for her to be calm. She instantlj begged bei
sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them
home^ as she was too miserable to stay a minute
longer.

Lady Middleton^ though in the middle of a
rubber, on being informed that Marianne was un-
well, was too polite to object for a moment to her
wish of going away, and making over her cards to
a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage
could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken dur*
ing their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne waa
in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for
tears ; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come
home, they could go directly to their own room,
where hartshorn restored her a little to herself.
She was soon undressed and in bed; and as she
seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then
left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs.
Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking orer
the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted
between Willoughby and Marianne she could not
doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of ity
seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might
still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute
such behavioj^to mistake or misapprehension of
any kind. CSdthing but a thorough change of
sentiment could account for itr^ Her indignation
would have been still stronger than it was, had

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. H

she not witnessed that embarrassment which
seemed to speak a consciousness of his own mis-
conduct, and prevented her from believing him
so imprincipled as to have been sporting with the
affections of her sister from the first, without any
design that would bear investigation. Absence
might have weakened his regard, and convenience
might have determined him to overcome it; but
that such a regard had formerly existed she could
not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so un
happy a meeting must already have given her,
and on those still more severe which might await
her in its probable consequence, she could not re-
flect without the deepest concern. Her own situa-
tion gained in the comparison; for while she could
esteem Edward as much as ever, however they
might be divided in future, her mind might be
always supported. But every circumstance that
could imbitter such an evil seemed uniting to
heighten the misery of Marianne in a final sepa-
ration from Willoughby, — in an immediate and
irreconcilable rupture with him.

CHAPTER IL

Befobs the housemaid had lit their fire the next
day, or the sun gained any power over a cold,
gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half
dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-
seats for the sake of all the little light she could
command from it, and writing as fast as a con-
tinual flow of tears would permit her. In this
situation Elinor, roused from sleep by her agi-
tation and sobs, first perceived her; and after
observing her for a few moments with silent
anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate
gentleness, —

"Marianne, may I ask—''

"No, Elinor, '* she replied, "ask nothing; you
will soon know all.''

The sort of desperate calmness with which this
was said lasted no longer than while she spoke^
and was immediately followed by a return of the
same excessive af&iction. It was some minutes be-
fore she could go on with her letter; and the fre-
quent bursts of grief which still obliged her at
intervals to withhold her pen were proofs enough

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 13

of her feeling how more than probable it was that
she was writing for the last time to Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive at-
tention in her power; and she would have tried to
soothe and tranquillize her still more, had not
Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of
the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her
for the world. In such circumstances it was better
for both that they should not be long together;
and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only
prevented her from remaining in the room a mo-
ment after she was dressed, but requiring at once
solitude and continual change of place, made her
wander about the house till breakfast-time, avoid-
ing the sight of everybody.

At breakfast she neither ate nor attempted to eat
anything; and Elinor's attention was then all em-
ployed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor
in appearing to regard her, but in endeavoring to
^iigftge Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.

As this was a favorite meal with Mrs. Jennings,
it lasted a considerable time; and they were just
setting themselves after it round the common work-
ing-table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne,
which she eagerly caught from the servant, and,
turning of a deathlike paleness, instantly ran out
of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this
as if she had seen the direction that it must come
from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sick*

i

14 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

ness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up
her head, and sat in such a general tremor as made
her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's
notice. That good lady, however^ saw only that
Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby,
which appeared to her a very good joke, and which
she treated accordingly^ by hoping, with a laugh,
that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's
distress she was too busily employed in measuring
lengths of worsted for her rug to see anything at
all; and calmly continuing her talk as soon as
Marianne disappeared, she said, —

*^ Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so
desperately in love in my life! My girls were
nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish
enough; but as for Miss Marianne she is quite an
altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my
heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for
it is quite grievous to see her >)ook so ill and for-
lorn. Pray, when are they to be marrie^"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than
at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an
attack as this, and therefore, trying to smile, re-
plied: '* And have you really, ma'am, talked your-
self into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged
to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only
a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply
more; and I must beg therefore that you will not
deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 15

nothing would surprise me more than to hear of
their heing going to be married."

^^For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! How
can you talk so? Don't we all know that it must
be. a match, — that they were over head and ears
in love with each other from the first moment they
met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire
every day, and all day long; and did not I know
that your sister came to town with me on purpose
to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't
do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you
think nobody else has any senses ; but it is no such
thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over
town this ever so long. I tell everybody of it, and
so does Charlotte."

^'Indeed, ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously,
*^you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very
unkind thing in spreading the report; and you
will find thit you have, though you will not be-
lieve me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had
not spirits to say more ; and eager, at all events, to
know what Willoughby had written, hurried away
to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw
Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by
grief, one letter in her hand, and two, or three
others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but with-
out saying a word; and seating herself on the bed,
took her handy kissed her affectionately several

/

16 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

times, and then gaye way to a burst of tears, which
at first was scarcely lesiS violent than Marianne's.
The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel
all the tenderness of this behavior; and after some
time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the
letters into Elinor's hands, and then, covering her
face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with
agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shock-
ing as it was to witness it, must have its course,
watched by her till this excess of suffering had
somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to
Willoughby's letter, read as follows : —

Bond Street, Jannaiy.
Mt dear Madam, — I have just had the honor of
receiving your letter, tor which I beg to return my sincere
acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there
was anything in my behavior last night that did not meet
your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to
discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to
offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can as-
sure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall
never reflect on my former acquaintance with your fam-
ily in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure,
and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake
or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your
whole family is very sincere ; but if I have been so unfor-
tunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or
meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having
been more guarded in my professions of that esteem.
That I should ever have meant more, you will allow to be
impossible, when you understand that my affections have
been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many

SENSE AND SENSIBILrrY. 17

Weeks, I belieTe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It
is with great regret that I obey your commands of re-
turning the letters with whicli I have been honored from
you, and the lock of hair which you so obligingly bestowed
on me.
I am, dear Madam,

Your most obedient humble serrant,

John Willoughbt.

With what indignation such a letter as this must
be read by Miss Dashwood may be imagined.
Though aware, before she began it, that it must
bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm
their separation forever, she was not aware that
such language could be suffered to announce it;
nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable
of departing so far from the appearance of every
honorable and delicate feeling, — so far from the
common decorum of a gentleman, — as to send a
letter so impudently cruel ; a letter which, instead
of bringing with his desire of a release any pro-
fessions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith,
denied all peculiar affection whatever; a letter of
which every line was an insult, and which pro-
claimed its writer to be deep in hardened villany.

She paused over it for some time with indignant
astonishment; then read it again and again: but
every perusal only served to increase her abhor-
rence of the man; and so bitter were her feelings
against him, that she dared not trust herself to
«peak, lest she might wound Marianne still deeper^

VOL. XL — 2

18 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to
her of any possible good, but as an escape from the
worst and most irremediable of all evils, — a con-
nection for life with an unprincipled man, as a
deliverance the most real, a blessing ihe most
important.

In her earnest meditations on the contents of a
letter, on the depravity of that mind which could
dictate it, and, probably, on the very different
mind of a very different person who had no other
connection whatever with the affair than what her
heart gave him with everything that passed, Elinor
forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot
that she had three letters on her lap yet unread,
and so entirely forgot how long she had been in.
the room, that when, on hearing a carriage drive
up to the door, she went to the window to see
who could be coming so unreasonably early, she
was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's
chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till
one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though
hopeless of contributing at present to her ease, she
hurried away to excuse herself from attending
Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being in-
disposed. Mrs. Jenningps, with a thoroughly good-
humored concern for its cause, admitted the
excuse most readily; and Elinor, after seeing
her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she
found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom

SENSE Ain> SENSIBHiRT. 19

she reached just in time to prevent liar tnm falling
on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of
proper rest and food; for it was many days since
she had any appetite, and many nights since she
had really slept; and now, when her mind was no
longer supported by the fever of suspense, the
consequence of all this was felt in an aching
head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured
for her directly, made her more comfortable, and
she was at last able to express some sense of
her kindness, by saying, ^'Poor Elinor 1 how
unhappy I make you I "

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were
anything I coiUd do, which might be of comfort
to you.'*

This, as everything else would have been, was
too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim,
in the anguish of her heart, "Oh, Elinor, I am
miserable indeed! ** before her voice was entirely
lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of
unresisted grief in silence.

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried^
"if you would not kill yourself and all who love
you. Think of your mother; think of her misery
while you suffer; for her sake you must exert
yourself."

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne. "Leava

\ \

20 8BK8E AND SENSIBUJIT.

me^ leave me, if I distress you, — leave me, hate me^
forget me; but do not torture me so. Oh| how
easy for those who have no sorrow of their own
to talk of exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, you
cannot have an idea of what I suffer/^

<<Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah, if you
knew! And can you believe me to be so, while
I see you so wretched? "

^'Forgive me, forgive me,'' throwing her arms
round her sister's neck. ^' I know you feel for me,
I know what a heart you have ; but yet you are —
you must be happy j Edward loves you, — what,
oh, what can do away such happiness as that? "

'^Many, many circumstances," said Elinor,
solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne, wildly; "he
loves you, and only you. You can have no grief."

" I can have no pleasure while I see you in this
state."

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine
is a misery which nothing can do away."

''You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you
no comforts, no friends? Is your loss such as
leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you
suffer now, think of what you would have suffered
if the discovery of his character had been delayed
to a later period, — if your engagement had been
carried on for months and months, as it might
have been, before he chose to put an end to it.

affifSE AND SENSIBILITT. 21

Ererj additional day of unhappy confidence^ on
yonr side, would have made the blow more
dreadful/'

« Engagement ! " cried Marianne, ''there has
been no engagement. '^

' ' No engagement ! ' '

'' No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him.
He has broken no faith with me.''

" But he told you that he loved you.*'

"Yes — no — never absolutely. It was every
day implied, but never professedly declared. Some-
times I thought it had been, but it never was.''

" Yet you wrote to him? "

''Yes: could that be wrong, after all that had
passed? But I cannot talk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the
three letters, which now raised a much stronger
curiosity than before, directly ran over the con-
tents of all. The first, which was what her sister
had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this

effect : —

Bbrkblbt Stbbbt, Jannaij.

How surprised yon will be, Willoughby, on receiving
this ; and I think you will feel something more than sur-
prise, when you know that I am in town. An opportu-
nity of coming hither, thoagh with Mrs. Jennings, was a
temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive
this in time to come here, to-night, but I will not depend
on it At any rate, I shall expect yon to-morrow. For
the present, adieu.

M.n

t

*

22 SENSE Ain> sENsmcLrrr.

Her second note, which had be«ii wriliwi on the
morning after the dance at the MMdletons'^ was in
these words : —

I cannot express my disappointment in having missed
70a the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not
having reeeived any answer to a note which I sent you
above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from
you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day.
Fray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason
of my having expected this in vain. You had better come
earlier another time, because we are generally out by one.
We were last night at Lady Middleton's, where there was
a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of
the party, fiut could it be so? You must be very much
altered, indeed, since we parted, if that could be the case,
and you not there, fiut I will not suppose this possible,
and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance
of its being otherwise.

M. D.

The contents of her last note to him were these :

What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behavior
last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I
was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our
separation naturally produced, — with the familiarity
which our intimacy at fiarton appeared to me to justify.
1 was repulsed indeed I I have passed a wretched night
in endeavoring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be
called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been
able to form any reasonable apology for your behavior,
I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You
have perhaps been misinformed or purposely deceived
in something concerning me, which may have lowered me
in your opinion. Tell me what it is ; explain the grounds

i

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 23

on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied in being able
to satisfy you. It would gricTe me, indeed, to be obliged
to think ill of you ; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn
that you are not what we have hitherto belieTed you,
that your regard for us all was insincere, that your be-
havior to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as
soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of
dreadful indecision ; I wish to acquit you, but certainty
on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your
sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return
my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your

possession.

M. D.

That such letters, so full of affection and con-
fidence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for
Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to
believe. But her condemnation of him did not
blind her to the improprietj of their having been
written at all; and she was silently grieving over
the imprudence which had hazarded such un-
solicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by
anything preceding, and most severely condemned
by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she
had finished the letters, observed to her that they
contained nothing but what any one would have
written in the same situation.

*^1 felt myself," she added, ^ Ho be as solemnly
engaged to him as if the strictest legal covenant
had bound us to each other."

"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfor-
tunately he did not feel the same."

24 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

** He did feel tbe same^ Elinor, — for weeks and
weeks be felt it. I know he did. Whatever may
have changed him now (and nothing but the black-
est art employed against me can have done it), I
was once as dear to him as my own soul could* wish.
This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give
up, was begged of me with the most earnest sup-
plication. Had you seen his look, his manner,
had you heard his voice at that moment! Have
you forgot the last evening of our being together
at Barton? The morning that we parted too!
When he told me that it might be many weeks
before we met again — his distress -^ can I ever
forget his distress?"

For a moment or two she could say no more ;
but when this emotion had passed away, she added
in a firmer tone, —

<' Elinor, I have been cruelly used, but not by
Willoughby.'*

'' Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By
whom can he have been instigated?"

"By all the world rather than by his own
heart. I could rather believe every creature of my
acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his
opinion, than believe his nature capable of such
cruelty. This woman of whom he writes, — who-
ever she be, — or any one, in short, but your own
dear self, mamma, and Edward, may have been so
barbarous to belie me. Beyond you three, is there

i

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 26

a creature in the world whom I would not rather
suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I
know so well?''

Elinor would not contend^ and only replied:
'* Whoever may have been so detestably your
enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant
triumph; my dear sister^ by seeing how nobly the
consciousness of your own innocence and good in-
tentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable
and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

"No, no/' cried Marianne, "misery such as ^
mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I
am wretchedT The triumph of seeing me so may
be open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they
who suffer little may be proud and independent as
they like, — may resist insult or return mortifica-
tion, — but I cannot. I must feel, — I must be
wretched, — and they are welcome to enjoy the
consciousness of it that can."

" But for my mother's sake and mine — "

"I would do more than for my own. But to
j{^)ear liappy when I am so miserable, — oh, who
can require it?"

Again they were both silent. Elinor was em-
ployed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to
the window, from the window to the fire, without
knowing that she received warmth from one, or «
discerning objects through the other; and Mari-
anne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head

26 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

leaning against one of its posts, again took up
Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over
every sentence, exclaimed, -

"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Wil-
loughby, could this be yours? Cruel, cruel, —
nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can.
Whatever he might have heard against me, ought
he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not
to have told me of it, to have given me the power
of clearing myself? ' The lock of hair,^ repeating
it from the letter, * which you so obligingly be-
stowed on me,' — that is unpardonable. Wil-
loughby, where was your heart when you wrote
those words? Oh, barbarously insolent I — Elinor,
can he be justified? "

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"And yet this woman — who knows what her
art may have been? — how long it may have been
premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! —
Who is she? — Who can she be? — Whom did I
ever- hear him talk of as young and attractive
among his female acquaintance? — Oh, no one, no
one: he talked to me only of myself."

Another pause ensued. Marianne was greatly
agitated, and it ended thus: —

" Elinor, I must go home. I must go and com*
fort mamma. Cannot we be gone to-morrow? "

"To-morrow, Marianne?"

^^Yes; why should I stay here? I came ooljr

SENSE AND SENSIBILITy. • 27

for Willoughby's sake — and now who cares for
me? Who regards me? '*

" It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We
owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and
ciyilitj of the commonest kind must prevent such
a hasty removal as that."

"Well, then, another day or two, perhaps; but I
cannot stay here long. I cannot stay to endure the
questions and remarks of all these people. The
Middletons and Palmers, — how am I to bear their
pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middle-
ton! Oh, what would he say to that? "

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a
moment she did so; but no attitude could give her
ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she
moved from one posture to another, till, growing
more and more hysterical, her sister could with
difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some
time was fearful of being constrained to call for
assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which
she was at length persuaded to take, were of use ;
and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned
•he continued on the bed quiet and motionless.

CHAPTER m.

Hrs. Jeknings came immediately to their room
on her return, and without waiting to have her re-
quest of admittance answered, opened the door and
walked in with a look of real concern.

" How do you do, my dear? " said she, in a voice
of great compassion, to Marianne, who turned away
her face without attempting to answer.

"How is she. Miss Dashwood? Poor thing!
she looks very had. No wonder. Ay, it is hut
too true. He is to be married very soon, — a good-
for-nothing follow! I have no patience with him.
Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and
she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey
herself, else I am sure I should not have believed
it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was.
'Well,' said I, ' all I can say is, that if it is true,
he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abomi-
nably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife
may plague his heart out.' And so I shall always
say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no
notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever
I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing
as he has not had this many a day. But there if

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 29

one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne, — he is not
the only young man in the world worth having j
and with your pretty face you will never want ad-
mirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her
any longer, for she had better have her cry out at
once and have done with it. The Parrys and San-
dersons luckily are coming to-night^ you know,
and that will amuse her.''

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of
the room, as if she supposed her young friend's
aiiiiction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, deter*
mined on dining with them. Elinor even advised
her against it. But no, she would go down^
she could bear it very well, and the bustle about
her would be less. Elinor, pleased to have her
governed for a moment by such a motive, though
believing it hardly possible that she could sit out
the dinner, said no morej and adjusting her dress
for her as well as she could, while Marianne still
remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into
the dining-room as soon as they were summoned
to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly,
she ate more and was calmer than her sister had
expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been
conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but
ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could
not have been maintained ^ but not a syllable es-

30 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

caped her lips, and the abstraction of her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of everything that was
passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's
kindness, though its e£Eusions were often distress-
ing and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her
those acknowledgments and returned her those
civilities, which her sister could not make or re-
turn for herself. Their good friend saw that Ma-
rianne was unhappy, and felt that everything was
due to her which might make her at all less so.
She treated her, therefore, with all the indulgent
fondness of a parent towards a favorite child on the
last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the
best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by
every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by
the relation of all the news of the day. Had not
Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen
a check to all mirth, she could have been enter-
Wned by Mrs. Jennings's endeavors to cure a dis-
appointment in love by a variety of sweetmeats
and olives and a good fire. As soon, however, as
the consciousness of all this was forced by contin-
ual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no
longer. With a hasty exclamation of misery, and
a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly
got up and hurried out of the room.

"Poor soul! " cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as
she was gone, "how it grieves me to see heri

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 31

And I declare if she is not gone away without
finishing her wine! And the dried cherries tool
Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am
sure if I knew of anything she would like, I
would send all over the town for it. Well, it is
the oddest thing to me that a man should use such
a pretty girl so ill ! But when there is plenty of
money on one side, and next to none on the other,
Lord bless you! they care no more about such
things!"

"The lady, then, — Miss Qrey, I think you
called her, — is very rich?"

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you
ever see her? A smart, stylish girl, they say, but
not handsome. I remember her aunt very well,
Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man.
But the family are all rich together. Fifty thou-
sand pounds! and by all accounts it won't come
before it 's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.
""Ko wonder! dashing about with his curricle and
hunters! Well, it don't signify talking; but
when a young man, be he who he will, comes and
makes love to a pretty girl and promises marriage,
he has no business to fly off from his word, only
because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready
to have him. Why don't he in such a case sell
his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and
make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you,
Hiss Marianne would have been ready to wait till

32 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

matters came round. But that won't do nowa-
days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be
given up by the young men of this age."

'' Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Qrey
is? Is she said to be amiable? "

''I never heard any harm of her; indeed I
hardly ever heard her mentioned, except that Mrs.
Taylor did say this morning that one day Miss
Walker hinted to her that she believed Mr. and
Mx*s. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey
married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never
agree."

" And who are the Ellisons? "

'^ Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of
age, and may choose for herself; and a pretty
choice she has made! What now," after pausing
a moment, '^your poor sister is gone to her own
room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there
nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear,
it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by
and by we shall have a few friends, and that will
amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She
hates whist, I know; but is there no round game
she cares for? "

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unneces-
sary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her
room again this evening. I shall persuade her, if
I can, to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants
zest.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 33

/' Ajf I believe that will be best for her* Let
her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord!
no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast
down this last week or two, for this matter I sup-
pose has been hanging oyer her head as long as
that. And so the letter that came to-day finished
it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion
of it, I would not have joked her about it for all
my money. But then, you know, how should I
guess such a thing? I made sure of its being
nothing but a common love-letter, and you know
young people like to be laughed at about them.
Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters
will be when they hear it ! If I had had my senses
about me, I might have called in Conduit Street in
my way home, and told them of it. But I shall
see them to-morrow."

'' It would be unnecessary, I am sure, for you to
caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever
naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest
allusion to what has passed, before my sister.
Their own good-nature must point out to them the
real cruelty of appearing to know anything about
it when she is present; and the less that may ever
be said to myself on the subject, the more my feel-
ings will be spared, as you, my dear madam, will
easily believe. '*

''Oh, Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be
terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for
TOL.n. — 8

34 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

your sister^ I am sore I would not mention a woid
abont it to her for the world. You saw I did not
all dinner-time. No more would Sir John nor my
daughters^ for they are all very thoughtful and
considerate; especially if I give them a hint^ as I
certainly will. For my party I think the less
that is said about such things the better^ the
sooner 't is blown over and forgot. And what
good does talking ever do, you know?"

'' In this affair it can only do harm; more so, per-
haps, than in many cases of a similar kind: for it
has been attended by circumstances which, for the
sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to
become the public conversation. I must do thu
justice to Mr. Willoughby, — he has broken no
positive engagement with my sister."

'^Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him.
No positive engagement, indeed, after taking her
all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very
rooms they were to live in hereafter! "

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the
subject further, and she hoped it was not required
of her for Willoughby's ; since, though Marianne
might lose much, he could gain very little by the
enforcement of the real truth. After a short
silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all
her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill
windy for it will be all the better for Colonel

SENSE AND SBNSIBILnT. 36

Brandon. He will have her at last; ay, that he
will. Mind me, now, if they a^n't married by
midsummer. Lord ! how he Ul chuckle over this
news I I hope he will come to-night. It will be
all to one a better match for your sister. Two
thousand a year without debt or drawback, — ex-

<?e^Jilfiaiiila-.iwca^

heri^bul aha. niay^'be 'prenticed^out at small cost,
.IGldJlifiBLXKbat'difte^ signify? Delaford is a nice
place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice
old-fashioned place, full of comforts and conven-
iences ; quite shut in with great garden walls that
are covered with the best fruit-trees in the coun-
try; and such a mulberry-tree in one comer!
Lord ! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time
we were there! Then, there is a dovecote, some
delightful stewponds, and a very pretty canal ; and
everything, in short, that one could wish for:
and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only
a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 't is
never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an
old yew arbor behind the house, you may see all
the carriages that pass along. Oh, 't is a nice
place ! A butcher hard by in the village^ and the
parsonage-house within a stone's-throw. To my
fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park,
where they are forced to send three miles for their
meat, and have not a neighbor nearer than your
mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as

36 8ENSB AND SENSIBIL1T7.

soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you knoi^
drives another down. K we can but put Wil*
loughby out of her head! "

^^Aj, if we can but do that^ ma'am," said
Elinor, ^*we shall do very well with or withoat
Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she weat
away to join Marianne, whom she found, as Ab
expected, in her own room, leaning in silent miseiy
over the small remains of a fire which till Elinor's
entrance had been her only light.

^' You had better leave me," was all the notice
that her sister received from her.

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will
go to bed." But this, from the momentary per-
verseness of impatient suffering, she at first re-
fused to do. Her sister's earnest though gentle
persuasion, however, soon softened her to com-
pliance ; and Elinor saw her lay her aching head
on the pillow, and saw her, as she hoped, in a way
to get some quiet rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired,
she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a
wine-glass full of something in her hand.

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just
recollected that I have some of the finest old Con-
stantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so
I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My
poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever
he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it

SENSE AND SENSmnJTT.

37

did him more good than anything else in the
world. Do take it to your sister."

'^Dear ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the
difference of the complaints for which it was rec-
ommended, "how good you are! But I have just
left Marianne in bed, and I hope almost asleep;
and as I think nothing will be of so much service
to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will
drink the wine myself."

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had
not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with
the compromise ; and Elinor, as she swallowed the
chief of it, reflected that though its good effects
on a colicky gout were at present of little impor-
tance to her, itsjbealing powers on a disappointed
h^it might be as reasonably Fned on herself as
on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were

at tea; and by his manner of looking round the

loom for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied

^ he neither expected nor wished to see her

Aeie, and, in short, that he was already aware of

that occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was

^strnck by the same thought; for soon after his

^Q'^nmce she walked across the room to the tea-

^K where Elinor presided, and whispered : ^ ^ The

Lionel looks as grave as ever, you see : he knows

nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hez%

y

38 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

and with a look which perfectly assured her of his
good information, inquired after her sister.

^< Marianne is not well/' said she. ^'She has
been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded
her to go to bed."

"Perhaps, then, " he hesitatingly replied, " what
I heard this morning may be — there may be more
truth in it than I could believe possible at first."

''What did you hear?"

'' That a gentleman whom I had reason to think
— in short, that a man, whom I knew to be en-
gaged— but how shall I tell you? If you know it
already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

*' You mean," answered Elinor, with forced
calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss
Grey. Yes, we do know it all. This seems to
have been a day of general elucidation, for this
very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Wil-
loughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear
it?"

" In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had
business. Two ladies were waiting for their car-
riage, and one of them was giving the other an
account of the intended match, in a voice so little
attempting concealment that it was impossible for
me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby,
John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught
my attention; and what followed was a positive
assertion that everything was now finally settled

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 39

respecting his marriage with Miss Grey, — it was
no longer to be a secret, — it would take place even
within a few weeks, with many particulars of prep-
arations and other matters. One thing, especially,
I remember, because it served to identify the man
still more: as soon as the ceremony was over,
they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in
Somersetshire. My astonishment! — but it would
be impossible to describe what I felt. The com-
municative lady I, learned, on inquiry, — for I
stayed in the shop till they were gone, — was a
Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since in-
lormed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian. ''

*' It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss
Grey has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in
anything, we may find an explanation.

" It may be so. But Willoughby is capable —
at least I think — '' He stopped a moment; then
added, in a voice which seemed to distrust itself,
"And your sister — how did she — ''

"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have
only to hope that they may be proportionably short.
It has been, it is, a most cruel affliction. Till
yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps — but I am almost con-
vinced that he never was really attached to her.
He has been very deceitful, and in some points
there seems a hardness of heart about him."

"AhP' said Colonel Brandon, "there is, in*

40 SENSE AND SENSIBlLlTr.

deed! But your sister does not — I think yon said
so — she does not consider it quite as you do? "

^'You know her disposition, and may believe
how eagerly she would still justify him if she
could.''

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the
removal of the tea-things and the arrangement
of the card-parties, the subject was necessarily
dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them
with pleasure while they were talking, knd who
expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's com-
munication in such an instantaneous gayety on
Colonel Brandon's side as might have become a
man in the bloom of youth, of hope, and happiness,
saw him, with amazement, remain the whole even*
ing more serious and thoughtful than usual.

OHAPTEE IV.

From a night of more sleep than she had expected,
Marianne awoke the next morning to the same
consciousness of misery in which she had closed
her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to
talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was
ready they had gone through the subject again and
again; with the same steady conviction and affec-
tionate counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetu-
ous feelings and varying opinions on Marianne's,
as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby
to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and
at others lost every consolation in the impossibility
of acquitting him. At one moment she was abso-
lutely indifferent to the observation of all the
world; at another, she would seclude herself from
it forever, and at a third, could resist it with en-
ergy. In one thing, however, she was uniform,
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it
was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and
in a determined silence when obliged to endure it.
Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs.

42 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

Jennings's entering into hvt sorrows with any
compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she
cannot feel. Her kindness is not sympathy; her
good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
is gossip; and she only likes me now because I
supply it.'^

/"Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the
injustice to which her sistgr was often led in her
opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her
own mind, and the too great importance placed by
her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and
the graces of a polished manner. Like half the
rest of the world, if more than half there be that
are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abili-
X ties and an excellent disposition, was neither rea-
sonable nor candid. She expected ftomothfix^gesple
the same opinions and feelings as heroym^ and she
judged of their motives by the immediate effect of
their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance oc-
curred, while the sisters were together in their own
room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
Jennings still lower in her estimation; because,
through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a
source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jen-
nings was governed in it by an impulse of the ut-
most good-will.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and
countenance gayly smiling, from the persuasion

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 43

of bringing comfort^ she entered their room,
saying, —

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I
am sure will do you good."

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her
imagination placed before her a letter from Wil-
loughby, full of tenderness and contrition, ex-
planatory of all that had passed, satisfactory,
convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby
himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce
at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assur-
ance of his letter. The work of one moment was
destroyed by the next. The handwriting of her
mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
and in the acuteness of the disappointment which
followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt
as if till that instant she had never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language within
her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence
could have expressed; and now she could reproach
her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes
with passionate violence, — a reproach, however,
so entirely lost on its object that after many ex-
pressions of pity she withdrew, still referring her
to the letter for comfort. But the letter, when
she was calm enough to read it, brought little com-
fort. Willoughby filled every page. Her mother,
still confident of their engagement, and relying as
warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been

44 SENSE AND SENSIBILirT.

roused, by Elinor's application, to entreat from
Marianne greater openness towards them both;
and this, with such tenderness towards her, such
affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction
of their future happiness in each other, that she
wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now re-
turned; her mother was dearer to her than ever,
dearer through the very excess of her mistaken con-
fidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent
to be gone. Elinor, unable herself to determine
whether it were better for Marianne to be in Lon-
don or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own,
except of patience, till their mother's wishes could
be known; and at length she obtained her sister's
consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual;
for she could not be easy till the Middletons and
Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
and positively refusing Elinor's ofEered attendance,
went out alone for the rest of the morning. Elinor,
with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was
going to communicate, and perceiving, by Mari-
anne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying
any foundation for it, then sat down to write her
mother an account of what had passed, and en-
treat her directions for the future; while Mari-
anne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs.
Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the tabl«

r

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 45

where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of
her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such
a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect
on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a
quarter of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves
could not then hear any sudden noise, was startled
by a rap at the door.

" Who can this be? " cried Elinor. *^ So early
too! I thought we had been safe.^'

Marianne moved to the window.

*' It is Colonel Brandon! '^ said she, with vexa-
tion. "We are never safe from Am."

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is
from home.'*

"I will not trust to thcU/' retreating to her
own room. "A man who has nothing to do with
his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on V
that of others.''

The event proved her conjecture right, though
it was founded on injustice and error; for Colonel
Brandon did come in; and Elinor, who was con-
vinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him
thither, and who saw that solicitude in his dis-
turbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious
though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive
her sister for esteeming him so lightly.

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said
he, after the first salutation, "and she encouraged

46 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

me to come on; and I was the more easily encouT'
aged, because I thought it probable that I might
find you alone, which I was very desirous of doing.
My object — my wish — my sole wish in desiring
it — I hope, I believe it is — is to be a means of
giving comfort; — no, I must not say comfort—^
not present comfort — but conviction, lasting con-
viction to your sister's mind. My regard for her,
for yourself, for your mother — will you allow me
to prove it, by relating some circumstances which
nothing but a very sincere regard — nothing but
an earnest desire of being useful — I think I am
justified — though where so many hours have been
spent in convincing myself that I am right, is
there not some reason to fear I may be wrong? '^
He stopped.

"I understand you," said Elinor. *^ You have
something to tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will
open his character further. Your telling it will
be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown
Marianne. My gratitude will be insured immedi-
ately by any information tending to that end, and
Aertf must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let
me hear it."

^^You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted
Barton last October — but this will give you no
idea — I must go further back. You will find me
a very awkward narrator. Miss Dashwood; I hardly
know where to begin. A short account of myself^

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 47

I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short
one. On such a subject, '^ sighing heavily, "I
can have little temptation to be diffuse."

He stopped a moment for recollection, and then^
with another sigh, went on.

^^You have probably entirely forgotten a con-
versation (it is not to be supposed that it could
make any impression on you) — a conversation be-
tween us one evening at Barton Park — it was the
evening of a dance — in which I alluded to a lady
I had once known, as resembling in some measure
your sister Marianne. '^

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have not for-
got jCn it." He looked pleased by this remem-
brance, and added, —

" If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the
partiality of tender recollection, there is a very
strong resemblance between them, as well in mind
as person; the same warmth, of heart, the sajne
eagerness of fancy and spirits. This lady was one
of my nearest relations, ai orphan from her in-
fancy, and under the guardianship of my father.
Our ages were nearly the same, and from our earli-
est years we were playfellows and friends. I can-
not remember the time when I did not love Eliza;
and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such
as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and
cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable
of having ever felt. Hers for me was, I believe,

48 SENSE AND SENSIBILrtY.

fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr.
Willoughby; and it was, though from a different
cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was
lost to me forever. She was married, — marrie'd^
^ against her inclination, to my brother. Her for-
tune was large, and our family estate much en-
cumbered; and this, I fear, is all that can be
said for the conduct of one who was at once her
uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve
her; he did not even love her. I had hoped that
her regard for me would support her under any
difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last
the misery of her situation, for she experienced
great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and
though she had promised me that nothing — But
how blindly I relate ! I have never told you how
this was brought on. We were within a few
hours of eloping together for Scotland. The
treachery or the folly of my cousin's maid be-
trayed us. I was banished to the house of a rela-
tion far distant, and she was allowed no liberty,
no society, no amusement, till my father's point
was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too
far, and the blow was a severe one; but had her
marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a
few months must have reconciled me to it, or at
least I should not have now to lament it. This,
however, was not the case. My brother had no
regard for her; his pleasures were not what they

SENS£ Am> SENSIBILITY. 49

ought to have been, and from the first he treated
her unkindly. The consequence of this upon a
mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs.
•Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned
herself at first to all the misery of her situation;
and happy had it been if she had not lived to over-
come those regrets which the remembrance of me
occasioned. But can we wonder that with such
a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a
friend to advise or restrain her (for my father
lived only a few months after their marriage, and
I was with my regiment in the East Indies), she
should fall? Had I remained in England, per-
haps,— but I meant to promote the happiness of
both by removing from her for years, and for that
purpose had procured my exchange. The shock
which her marriage had given me," he continued,
in a voice of great agitation, ^^was of trifling
weight, — was nothing to what I felt when I heard,
about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It
was that which threw this gloom, — even now the
recollection of what I suffered — "

He could say no more, and rising hastily, walked
for a few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected
by his relation, and still more by his distress,
could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming
to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with
grateful respects A few minutes more of silent
exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.
VOL. n. — 4

50 SENSE AND 8ENSIBILIT7.

'' It was nearly three years after this unliappy
period before I returned to England. My first
care, when I did arrive, was of course to seek for
her; but the search was as fruitless as it was
melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her
first seducer, and there was every reason to fear
that she had removed from him only to sink
deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was
not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her
comfortable maintenance; and I learned from my
brother that the power of receiving it had been
made over some months before to another person*
He imagined, and calmly could he imagine i1^
that her extravagance and consequent distress
had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediati
relief. At last, however, and after I had been six
months in England, I did find her. Regard for a
former servant of my own, who had since fallea
into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a
spunging-house, where he was confined for debt;
and there, in the same house, under a similar con-
finement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered^
so faded, worn down by acute suffering of
every kind, hardly could I believe the melancholy
and sickly figure before me to be the remains of
the lovely, blooming, healthful girl on whom I
had once doted. What I endured in so beholding
her — But I have no right to wound your feelings
by attempting to describe it, — I have pained you

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 61

too much already. That she was to all appear-
ance in the last stage of a consumption was —
yes, in such a situation, it was my greatest com-
fort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giv-
ing time for a better preparation for death; and
that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable
lodgings and under proper attendants; I visited
her every day during the rest of her short life; I
was with her in her last moments."

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor
spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender con-
cern at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

''Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said
he, ''by the resemblance I have fancied between
her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates,
their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the
natural sweet disposition of the one been gpiarded
by a firmer mind or a happier marriage, she
might have been all that you will live to see the
other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem
to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah!
Miss Dashwood, a subject such as this, — un-
touched for fourteen years, — it is dangerous to
handle it at all! I will be more collected, more
concise. She left to my care her only child, a
little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connec-
tion, who was then about three years old. She
loved the child, and had always kept it with her.
It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and

52 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest
sense; by watching over her education myself, had
the nature of our situations allowed it ; but I had
no family, no home; and my little Eliza was
therefore placed at school. I saw her there when-
ever I could; and after the death of my brother
(which happened about fire years ago, and which
left to me the possession of the family property)
she frequently visited me at Delaford. I called
her a distant relation; but I am well aware that
I have in general been suspected of a much nearer
connection with her. It is now three years ago
(she had just reached her fourteenth year) that I
removed her from school, to place her under the
<*are of a very respectable woman residing in Dor-
setshire, who had the charge of four or five other
giirls of about the same time of life; and for two
years I had every reason to be pleased with her
situation. But last February, almost a twelve-
month back, she suddenly disappeared. I had
allowed her (imprudently, as it has since turned
out), at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one
of her young friends, who was attending her father
there for his health. I knew him to be a very
good sort of man, and I thought well of his
daughter, — better than she deserved; for, with a
most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would
tell nothing, would give no clew, though she cer-
tainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning

^\.

SENSE AND SENSIBELITT. 53

but not a quick-sighted man^ could really^ I be*
lieve^ give no information; for he had been gener-
ally confined to the house^ while the. girls were
ranging over the town, and making what acquaint-
ance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as
thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his
daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the
business. In short, I could learn nothing but
that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long
months, was left to conjecture. What I thought,
what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suf-
fered too.''

"Good heavens I" cried Elinor, "could it be
— could Willoughby — "

'*The first news that reached me of her," he
continued, " came in a letter from herself last Oc-
tober. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and
I received it on the very morning of our intended
party to Whitwell ; and this was the reason of my
leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must
at the time have appeared strange to everybody,
and which I believe gave offence to some. Littlo
did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his
looks censured me for incivility in breaking up
the party, that I was called away to the relief of
one whom he had made poor and miserable ; but
had he known it, what would it have availed?
Would he have been less gay or less happy in the
smiles of your sister? No, he had already done

54 8EN8B AND SEKSIBILIT7.

that ¥^ich no man who can feel for another would
do* ffie had left the girl whose youth and inno-
cence he had seduced in a situation of the utmost
distress, with no creditable home, no help^ no
friends, ignorant of his address! He had left
her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor
wrote, nor relieved her^^

'^ This is beyond everything ! " exclaimed
Elinor.

^' His character is now before you, — expensive,
dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all
this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess
what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond
of him as ever, and on being assured that she was
to marry him; guess what I must have felt for all
your sakes. When I came to you last week and
found you alone, I came determined to know the
truth; though irresolute what to do when it was
known. My behavior must have seemed strange
to you then ; but now you will comprehend it. To
suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister —
But what could I do? I had no hope of inter-
feringwith success; and sometimes I thought your
sister's influence might yet reclaim him. But
now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell
what were his designs on her? Whatever they
may have been, however, she may now, and here-
after doubtless will, turn with gratitude towards
her own condition, when she compares it with that

8SNSE Ain) SENSIBILmr. 55

of my poor Eliza; when she considers the wretched
and hopeless situation of this poor girl^ and pic-
tures her to herself with an affection for him as
strong; still as strong as her own, and with a mind
tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her
through life. Surely this comparison must have
its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings
to be nothing; they proceed from no misconduct,
and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every
friend must be made still more her friend by them.
Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her
fortitude under it, must strengthen every attach-
ment. Use your own discretion, however, in com*^
municating to her what I have told you. You
must know best what will be its effect; but had I
not seriously and from my heart believed it might
be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not
have suffered myself to trouble you with this ac-
count of my family afflictions, — with a recital
which may seem to have been intended to raise
myself at the expense of others."

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grate-
ful earnestness; attended, too, with the assurance
of her expecting material advantage to Marianne
from the communication of what had passed.

"I have been more pained," said she, "by
her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest;
for it irritates her mind more than the most
perfect conviction of his unworthiness can da

56 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

Now; thoagb at first she will suffer mucli; I
am sure she will soon become easier. Have
you/' she continued, after a short silence, ''ever
seen Mr. Willoughbj since you -left him at
Barton? "

'^ Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One
meeting was unavoidable."

Elinor, startled by bis manner, looked at him
anxiously, saying, —

" What! have you met him to — "

^< I could meet him in no other way. Eliza had
confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name
of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
was within a fortnight after myself, we met by ap-
pointment, — he to defend, I to punish his conduct.
We returned un wounded; and the meeting there*
fore never got abroad."

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this;
but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to
censure it.

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause,
"has been the unhappy resemblance between the
fate of mother and daughter; and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust."

"Is she still in town?"

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in,
for I found her near her delivery, I removed her
and her child into the country, and there she
remains."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

57

Kecollecting; soon afterwards, that he was prob-
ably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an
end to his visit, receiving from her again the same
grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of
compassion and esteem for him.

CHAPTER V.

When the particulars of this conyersation were
peated by Miss Dashwood to her sister^ as they
very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely
such as the former had hoped to see. Not that
Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any
part of it, for she listened to it all with the most
steady and submissive attention, made neither ob-
jection nor remark, attempted no vindication of
Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that
she felt it to be impossible. But though this be-
havior assured Elinor that the conviction of this
guilt w<zs carried home to her mind, though she
saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no
longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,
in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking,
with a kind of compassionate respect, and though
she saw her spirits less violently irritated than
before, she did not see her less wretched. Her
mind did become settled, but it was settled in a
gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's
character yet more heavily than she had felt the
loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of
Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 59

the donbt of what his designs might once have
been on herself preyed altogether so much on her
spirits that she could not bring herself to speak
of what she felt even to Elinor; and brooding
over her sorrows in silence^ gave more pain to her
sister than could have been communicated by the
most open and most frequent confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs.
Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor's
letter would be only to give a repetition of what
her daughters had already felt and said; of a dis*
appointment hardly less painful than Marianne's^
and an indignation even greater than Elinor's.
Long letters from her^ quickly succeeding each
other^ arrived to tell all that she suffered and
thought; to express her anxious solicitude for
Marianne^ and entreat she would bear up with
fortitude under this misfortune. Bad, indeed,
must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when
her mother could talk of fortitude ! mortifying and
humiliating must be the origin of those regrets
which she could wish her not to indulge.

Against the interest of her own individual com-
fort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would
be better for Marianne to be anywhere at that
time than at Barton, where everything within
her view would be bringing back the past in the
strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly
placing Willoughby before her, such as she had

60 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

always seen him there. She recommended it to
her daughters, therefore, by all means not to
shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length
of which, though never exactly fbced, had been
expected by all to comprise at least five or six
weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and
of company, which could not be procured at Bar-
ton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she
hoped, cheat Marianne at times into some interest
beyond herself, and even into some amusement,
much as the idea of both might now be spurned
by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again,
her mother considered her to be at least equally
safe in town as in the country, since his acquaint-
ance must now be dropped by all who called them-
selves her friends. Design could never bring
them in each other^s way; negligence could never
leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had
less in its favor in the crowd of London than even
in the retirement of Barton, where it might force
him before her while paying that visit at Allenham
on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from fore-
seeing at first as a probable event, had brought
herself to expect as a certain one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her chil-
dren to remain where they were : a letter from her
son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were
to be in town before the middle of February; and

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 61

she judged it right that they should sometimes see
l^eir brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her
mother^s opinion; and she submitted to it there-
fore without opposition, though it proved perfectly
different from what she wished and expected,
though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed
on mistaken grounds, and that, by requiring her
longer continuance in London, it deprived her of
the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness,
the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed
her to such society and such scenes as must pre-
vent her ever knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her,
that what brought evil to herself would bring good
to her sister; and Elinor on the other hand, sus-
pecting that it would not be in her power to avoid
Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking
that though their -longer stay would therefore
militate against her own happiness, it would be
better for Marianne than an immediate return into
Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever
hearing Willoughby's name mentioned was not
thrown away. Marianne, though without know-
ing it herself, reaped all its advantage ; for neither
Mrs. Jennings nor Sir John nor even Mrs.
Palmer herself ever spoke of him before her.
Elinor wished that the same forbearance could

62 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

have extended towards herself; bat that was im-
possible^ and she was obliged to listen^ day after
day, to the indignation of them all.

Sir John could not have thought it possible.
A man of whom he had always had such reason
to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He
did not believe there was a bolder rider in Eng-
land! It was an unaccountable business. He
wished him at the devil with all his heart. He
would not speak another word to him, meet him
where he might, for all the world! No, not if it
were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they
were kept waiting for two hours together. Such a
scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It
was only the last time they met that he had
offered him one of Folly's puppies; and this was
the end of it!

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.
She was determined to drop his acquaintance
immediately, and she was very thanMul that she
had never been acquainted with him at all. She
wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not
so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it
was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him
so much that she was resolved never to mention his
name again, and she should tell everybody she
saw how good-for-nothing he was.

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown
in procuring all the particulars in her power of the

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 63

ftppioaching marriage, and communicating them to
Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's
the new carriage was building, by what painter
Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what
warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middle-
ton on the occasion was a happy relief to Elinor's
spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clam-
orous kindness of the others. It was a great com-
fort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in
one person at least among their circle of friends ;
a great comfort to know that there was one who
would meet her without feeling any curiosity
after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's
health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the
circumstances of the moment, to more than its
real value; and she was sometimes worried down
by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as
more indispensable to comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair
about once every day, or twice, if the subject
occurred very often, by saying, *' It is very shock-
ing indeed! " and by the means of this continual
though gentle vent was able not only to see the
Miss Dashwoods, from the first, without the small-
est emotion, but very soon to see them without
recollecting a word of the matter; and having
thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and

64 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in
the other, she thought herself at liherfcy to attend
to the interest of her own assemhlies, and there-
fore determined (though rather against the opinion
of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughhy would at
once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave
her card with her as soon as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive inquiries
were never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He
had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the
friendly zeal with which he had endeavored to
soften it, and they always conversed with confi-
dence. His chief reward for the painful exertion
of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations
was given in the pitying eye with which Mari-
anne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness
of her voice, whenever (though it did not often
happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to
speak to him. These assured him that his exer-
tion had produced an increase of good-will towards
himself, and these gave Elinor hopes of its being
further augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings,
who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that
the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that
she could neither prevail on him to make the offer
himself nor commission her to make it for him,
began, at the end of two days, to think that in-
stead of midsummer they would not be married

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 65

till MicliaelmaS; and by the end of a week that it
would not be a match at all. The good under-
standing between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood
seemed rather to declare that the honors of the
mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbor would
all be made over to her^ and Mrs. Jennings had
for some time ceased to think at all of Mr.
Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the
receipt of Willoughby^s letter, Elinor had the
painful office of informing her sister that he was
married. She had taken care to haye the intelli-
gence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known
that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous
that Marianne should not receive the first notice
of it from the public papers, which she saw her
eagerly examining every morning.

She received the news with resolute composure,
made no observation on it, and at first shed no
tears; but after a short time they would burst out,
afid for the rest of the day she was in a state
hardly less pitiable than when she first learned to
expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were
married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be
no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail
on her sister, who had never yet left the house
since the blow first fell, to go out again, by de-
grees, as she had done before.
vol.. II.— 5

66 SENSE AKB 8ENSIBILITT.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately ar*
rived at their cousin's house in Bartlett's Build-
ingSj Holborn, presented theniselves again before
their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley
Street, and were welcomed by them all with great
cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their pres-
ence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew
how to make a very gracious return to the over-
powering delight of Lucy in finding her still in
town.

'^ I should have been quite disappointed if I had
not found you here stilly^' said she, repeatedly, with
a strong emphasis on the word. ^^But I always
thought I should. I was almost sure you would
not leave London yet awhile ; though you told me,
you know, at Barton, that you should not stay
above a month. But I thought at the time that
you would most likely change your mind when it
came to the point. It would have been such a
great pity to have went away before your brother
and sister came. And now, to be sure, you will
be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad
you did not keep to your word.''

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced
to use all her self-command to make it appear that
she did not.

''Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, *'and
how did you travel?-^

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 67

^'Kot in the stage^ I assure you/' replied Miss
Steele, with quick exultation; '^ we came post all
the way^ and had a very smart beau to attend us.
Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought
we'd join him in a postchaise; and he behaved
very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings
more than we did.'*

**0h, oh! " cried Mrs. Jennings, "very pretty,
indeed; and the Doctor is a single man, I warrant
you."

"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly sim-
pering, " everybody laughs at me so about the
Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say
they are sure I have made a conquest ; but for my
part I declare I never think about him from one
hour's end to another. ^Lordl here comes your
beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t' other day, when
she saw him crossing the street to the house. ' My
beau, indeed!' said I; 'I cannot think who you
mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.' "

"Ay, ay, that is very pretty talking; but it
won't do, — the Doctor is the man, I see."

"No, indeed! " replied her cousin, with affected
earnestness; " and I beg you will contradict it, if
you ever hear it talked of."

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying
assurance that she certainly would notf and Miss
Steele was made completely happy.

"I suppose you will go and stay with your

68 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

•

brother and sister^ Miss Dashwood, when they
come to town/' said Lucy, returning, after a ces-
sation of hostile hints, to the charge.

"No, I do not think we shall."

" Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

Elinor would not humor her by further
opposition.

'^ What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dash-
wood can spare you both for so long a time
together! "

"Long a time, indeed! " interposed Mrs. Jen-
nings. " Why, their visit is but just begun! "

Lucy was silenced.

"I am sorry we cannot see your sister. Miss
Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she
is not well; " for Marianne had left the room on
their arrival.

" You are very good. My sister will be equally
sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you ; but she
has been very much plagued lately with nervous
headaches, which make her unfit for company or
conversation."

"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old
friends as Lucy and me! — I think she might see
us; and I am sure we would not speak a word."

Elinor, with great civility, declined the pro-
posal. Her sister was, perhaps, laid down upon
the bed or in her dressing-gown, and therefore
not able to come to them.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 69

"Oh, if that's all/' cried Miss Steele, "we
can just as well go and see her,'*

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much
for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of
checking it by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which
now, as on many occasions, though it did not give
much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was
of advantage in governing those of the other.

CHAPTER VL

After some opposition Marianne yielded to her
sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with
her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an
hour. She expressly conditioned^ however, for
paying no visits, and would do no more than ac-
company them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where
Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the
exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her
mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings
recollected that there was a lady at the other end
of the street on whom she ought to call ; and as
she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved that
while her young friends transacted theirs, she
should pay her visit, and return for them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods
found so many people before them in the room
that there was not a person at liberty to attend to
their orders ; and they were obliged to wait. All
that could be done was to sit down at that end of
the counter which seemed to promise the quickest
succession; one gentleman only was standing
there, and it is probable that Elinor was not with-

ASD SENSIBILnY. 71

out hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker de-
spatch. But the correctness of his eye and the
delicacy of his taste proved to be beyond his po-
liteness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-
case for himself; and till its size, shape, and
ornaments were determined, all of which, after ex-
amining and debating for a quarter of an hour
over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally
arranged by hiis own inventive fancy, he had no
leisure to bestow any other attention on the two
ladies than what was comprised in three or four
very broad stares, -^Jkind of notice which served
to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person
and face of strong, natural, sterling insignificance,
though adorned in the first style of fashion^

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feel-
ings of contempt and resentment, on this imperti-
nent examination of their features, and on the
puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the
different horrors of the different toothpick-cases,
presented to his inspection, by remaining uncon-^.
scions of it all ; for she was as well able to collect
her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of
what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray^s shop
as in her own bedroom.

.At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the
gold, and the pearls, all received their appoint-
ment; ^and the gentleman having named the last
day on which his existence could be continued

72 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

without the possession of the toothpick-case^ drew
on his gloves with leisurely care, and hestowing
another glance on the Miss Dashwoods^ hut such
a one as seemed rather to demand than express
admiration, walked o£E with a happy air of real*
conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in hringing her husiness
forward, and was on the point of concluding it,
when another gentleman presented himself at her
side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and
found him, with some surprise, to he her hrother.

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just
enough to make a very creditahle appearance in
Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far
from heing sorry to see his sisters again ; it rather
gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after
their mother were respectful and attentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had heen in
tdwn two days.

"I wished very much to call upon you yester-
day," said he, *'hut it was impossible, for we
were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts
at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the
day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased.
This morniug I had fully intended to call on you,
if I could possibly find a spare half-hour, but one
has always so much to do on first coming to town.
I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But to-
morrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 73

Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend
Mrs. Jennings. I understand slie is a woman of
very good fortune. And the Middletons, too, you
must introduce me to them. As my mother-in-
law's relations, I shall be happy to show them
every respect. They are excellent neighbors to
you in the country, I understand. '^

^^ Excellent indeed. Their attention to our com-
fort, their friendliness in every particular, is more
than I can express."

^'I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word;
extremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be;
they ar&^people of larg^ fortmje; they are related
to you; and every civility and accommodation that
can serve to make your situation pleasant might be
reasonably expected. And so you are most com-
fortably settled in your little cottage, and want for
nothing ! Edward brought us a most charming
account of the place: the most complete thing of
its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
seemed to enjoy it beyond anything. It was a
great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you.''

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother;
and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of
answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's
servant, who came to tell her that his mistress
waited for them at the door.

Mr. Dashwood attended them downstairs, was
introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her

'\

74 SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT.

carriage, and repeating bis hope of being able to
call on them the next day, took leave.

His yisit was duly paid. He came with a pre-
tence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for
not coming too ; ''but she was so much engag^
with her mother, that really she had no leisure
for g^ing anywhere/' Mrs. Jennings, howeveri
assured him directly, that she should not stand
upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or some-
thing like it, and she should certainly wait on
Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her
sisters to see her. His manners to them, though
calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings most
attentively civil ; and on Colonel Brandon's coming
in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say that he only wanted to know
him to be rich to be equally civil to him.

After staying with them half an hour, he asked
Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and
introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily
consented. As soon as they were out of the housei
his inquiries began.

''Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of
fortune? "

*'Yes; he has very good property in Dorset-
shire."

"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentleman-
like man^ and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate

J

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 75

you on the prospect of a yeiy respectable establish-
ment in life/'

"Me, brother I what do you mean?''
''He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and
am convinced of it. What is the amount of his
fortune? "

"I believe about two thousand a year."
''Two thousand a year?" and then working
himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity,
he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
were tiviee as much for your sake."

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but
I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the
smallest wish of marrying me,'^

"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much
mistaken. A very little trouble on your side
secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be
undecided; the smallness of your fortune may
make him hang back; his friends may all advise
him against it. But some of those little atten-
tions and encouragements which ladies can so
easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And
there can be no reason why you should not try for
him. It is not to be supposed that any prior
attachment on your side — in short, you know, as
to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of
the question, the objections are insurmountable;
you have too much sense not to see all that.

*

Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility

76 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased
with jorx and your family. It is a match that
must give universal satisfaction. In shorty it is
a kind of thing that/^ lowering his voice to an
important whisper, "will be exceedingly welcome
to all parties,'^ Recollecting himself, however,
he added: "That is, I mean to say — your friends
are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny
particularly, for she has your interest very much
at heart, I assure you. And her mother, too, Mrs.
Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it
would give her great pleasure; she said as much
the other day."

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

"It would be something remarkable, now," he
continued, " something droll, if Fanny should have
a brother and I a sister settling at the same time;,
and yet it is not very unlikely."

"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said ElinoTi with
resolution, "going to be married?"

"It is not actually settled, but there is such
a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent
mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality,
will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a
year, if the match takes place. The lady is the
Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late
Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A
very desirable connection on both sides, and I
have not a doubt of its taking place in time. • A

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 77

thousand a year is a great deal for a mother to
give away, to make over forever; but Mrs. Ferrars
has a noble spirit. To give you another instance
of her liberality, — the other day, as soon as we
came to town, aware that money could not be very
plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into
Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred
pounds; and extremely acceptable it is, for we
must live at a great expense while we are here."

He paused for her assent and compassion; and
she forced herself to say, —

"Your expenses both in town and country must
certainly be considerable; but your income is a
large one.''

" Not so large, I dare say, as many people sup-
pose. I do not mean to complain, however; it is
undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in
time be better. The enclosure of Norland Com-
mon, now carrying on, is a most serious drain;
and then I have made a little purchase within
this half year, — East Kingham Farm, you must
remember the place, where old Gibson used to
live. The land was so very desirable for me in
every respect, so immediately adjoining my own
property, that I felt it my duty to buy it, I could
not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall
into any other hands. A man must pay for his
convenience; and it has cost me a vast deal of
money."

78 S£NS£ AND SENSIBILnT.

^^More than jou think it leally and intrinsi-
cally worth f

*'Whj, I hope not that. I might have sold it
again, the next day, for more than I gave; but,
with regard to the purchase-money, I might have
been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were
at that time so low that if I had not happened
to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands,
I must have sold out to very great loss.''

Elinor could only smile.

^^ Other great and inevitable expenses, too, we
have had on first coming to Norland. Our re-
spected father, as you well know, bequeathed all
the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and
very valuable they were) to your mother. Far l)e
it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an un-
doubted right to dispose of his own property as he
chose. But, in consequence of it, we have been
obliged to make large purchases of linen, china,
etc., to supply the place of what was taken away.
You may guess, after all these expenses, how very
far we must be from being rich, and how accept-
able Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."

"Certainly,'' said Elinor j '^and, assisted by
her liberality, I hope you may yet live to be in
easy circumstances."

" Another year or two may do much towards it,"
he gravely replied; "but, however, there is still
a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 79

of Fanny's greenhonse^ and nothing bat the plan
of the flower-garden marked out."

" Where is the greenhouse to be? "

''Upon the knoll behind the house. The old
walnut-trees are all come down to make room for
it. It will be a very fine object from many parts
of the park; and the flower-garden will slope down
just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have
cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches
over the brow."

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to her-
selfy and was very thankful that Marianne was not
present to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty
clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a
pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters in his next
visit at Oray's, his thoughts took a cheerfuller
turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor on hav-
ing such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

^'She seems a most valuable woman indeed.
Her house, her style of living, all bespeak an ex-
ceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance
that has not only been of great use to you hitherto,
but in the end may prove materially advantageous.
Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing
in your favor; and indeed it speaks altogether so
great a regard for you that in all probability when
she dies you will not be forgotten. She must have
a great deal to leave."

'' Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for

80 SENSE AND SENSIBILTIT.

she has only her jointure^ which will descend to
her children. '^

'' But it is not to he imagined that she lives np
to her income. Few people of common prudence
will do that ; and whatever she saves she will he
ahle to dispose of."

"And do you not think it more likely that
she should leave it to her daughters than to
us?"

** Her daughters are hoth exceedingly well mar-
ried, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity
of her rememhering them further; whereas, in
my opinion, hy her taking so much notice of you
and treating you in this kind of way, she has given
you a sort of claim on her future consideration,
which a conscientious woman would not disregard.
Nothing can he kinder than her hehavior; and she
can hardly do all this without heing aware of the
expectation she raises."

" But she raises none in those most concerned.
Indeed, hrother, your anxiety for our welfare and
prosperity carries you too far."

"Why, to he sure," said he, seeming to recol-
lect himself, " people have little, have very little
in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the
matter with Marianne? She looks very unwell,
has lost her color, and is grown quite thin. Is
she ill?"

"She is not well; she has had a nervous com-
plaint on her for several weeks."

r

oEHSE ASD sENsmmrrr. \H

** I am flony hm ikftt. At lier time of life mny^
thing of an illness destioja the bloom foreyerl
Hers has been a very short one! She was as hand*
some a girl last September as any I ever saw,
and as likely to attract the men. There was some-
thing in her style of beauty to please them particu*
larly. I remember Fanny nsed to say that she
would marry sooner and better than you did; not
but what she is exceedingly fond of yoti, but so it
happened to strike her. She will be mistaken^
however. I question whether Marianne now will
marry a man worth more than five or six hundred
a year at the utmost, and I am very much deceived
if 1/au do not do better. Dorsetshire ! I know very
little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor^ I shall
be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I
think I can answer for your having Fanny and my-
self among the earliest and best pleased of your
visitors. *'

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that
there was no likelihood of her marrying Colonel
Brandon; but it was an expectation of too much
pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was
really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that
gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every
possible attention. He had just compunction
enough for having done nothing for his sisters
himself, to be exceedingly anxious that every-
body else should do a great deal; and an offer
vol.. II. — 6

82 BENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

from Colonel Brandon or a legacy from Mrs.
Jennings was the easiest means of atoning for
his own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton
at home^ and Sir John came in before their visit
ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides.
Sir John was ready to like anybody; and though
Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know much about
horses, he soon set him down as a very good-
natured fellow; while Lady Middleton saw enough
of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaint-
ance worth having, and Mr. Dashwood went away
delighted with both.

'< I shall have a charming account to carry to
Fanny/' said he, as he walked back with his sis-
ter. ^^Lady Middleton is really a most elegant
woman, — such a woman as I am sure Fanny will
be glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings too, an ex-
ceeding well«behaved woman, though not so ele-
gant as her daughter. Tour sister need not have
any scruple, even of visiting her, which, to say the
truth, has been a little the case, and very natu-
rally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was
the widow of a man who had got all his money in
a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were both
strongly prepossessed that neither she nor her
daughters were such kind of women as Fanny
would like to associate with. But now I can carry
her a most satisfactory account of both.''

CHAPTER VIL

Mrs. Johk Dashwood bad so much confidence in
her husband's judgment that she waited the very
next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter;
and her confidence was rewarded by finding even
the former^ even the woman with whom her sisters
were staying, by no means unworthy of notice;
and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of
the most charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs.
Dashwood. There was a kind of cold-hearted self-
ishness on both sides which mutually attracted
them; and they sympathized with each other in an

^'^'^^p^^ p^^pnftty of d^^^aniP^j a^d a general want
of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended
Mrs. John Dashwood to the good opinion of Lady
Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,
and to her she appeared nothing more than a little,
proud-looking woman, of uncordial address, who
met her husband's sisters without any affection,
and almost without having anything to say to
them; for pi the quarter of an hour bestowed on
Berkeley Street, she sat at least seven minutes
and a half in silence.

84 SENSE AND SENSIBILTIT.

Elinor wanted yerj mucli to know^ thongh she
did not choose to ask, whether Edward was then in
town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
Toluntarily to mention his name before her, till
able to tell her that his marriage with Miss Mor*
ton was resolved on, or till her husband's expecta-
tions on Colonel Brandon were answered; because
she believed them still so very much attached to
each other, that they could not be too sedulously
divided in word and deed on every occasion. The
intelligence, however, which she would not give
soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came
very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being
unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in
town with Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared
not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detec-
tion; and though their mutual impatience to. meet
was not to be told, they could do nothing at present
but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in
town, within a very short time, by twice calling
in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on
the table when they returned from their morning's
engagements. Elinor was pleased that he had
called, and still more pleased that she had missed
him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted
with the Middletons that though not much in the
habit of giving anything, they determined to give

f

A 1

4

s

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 86

them — a dinner; and soon after their acquaint-
ance began, invited them to dine in Harley Street,
where they had taken a very good house for three
months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were
invited likewise ; and John Dashwood was careful
to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be
where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager
civilities with some surprise, but much more pleas-
ure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars ; but Elinor
could not learn whether her sons were to be of the
party. The expectation of seeing her, however,
was enough to make her interested in the engage-
ment; for though she could now meet Edward's
mother without that strong anxiety which had
once promised to attend such an introduction,
though she could now see her with perfect indiffer-
ence as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being
in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know
what she was like, was as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated
the party was soon afterwards increased, more
powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that
the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to
Lady Middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities
made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly
not elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she
was as ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a
week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to

86 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as
soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that
their visit should begin a few days before the party
took place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dash-
wood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many
years had had the care of her brother, might not
have done much, however, towards procuring them
seats at her table; but as Lady Middleton's guests
they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long
wanted to be personally known to the family, to
have a nearer view of their characters and her own
difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeav-
oring to please them, had seldom been happier in
her life than she was on receiving Mrs. John
Dashwood's card.

On Elinor its effect was very different. She
began immediately to determine that Edward,
who lived with his mother, must be asked, as his
mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to
see him for the first time, after all that had passed,
in the company of Lucy, — she hardly knew how
she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded
entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on
truth. They were relieved, however, not by her
own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy,
who believed herself to be inflicting a severe dis-
appointment when she told her that Edward cer-

SENSE AND SENSIBILriT. 87

tainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday,
and even hoped to be carrying the pain still fur*
ther, by persuading her that he was kept away by
that extreme affection for herself which he could
not conceal when they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to in-
troduce the two young ladies to this formidable
mother-in-law.

''Pity me, dear Miss Dash wood I '^ said Lucy,
as they walked up the stairs together, — for the
Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings
that they all followed the servant at the same time,
— '• there is nobody here but you that can feel for
me. I declare I can hardly stand. Oood gracious I
In a moment I shall see the person that all my
happiness depends on, — that is to be my mother! ''

Elinor could have given her immediate relief,
by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss
Morton's mother rather than her own whom they
were about to behold; but instead of doing that,
she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she
did 'pity her, — to the utter amazement of Lucy,
who, though really uncomfortable herself hoped
at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to
Xlinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright,
#T«a to formality, in her figure, and serious, even
to soainew, in her aspect. Her complexion was
sallow, and htr features small, without beauty^

88 8KNSE AND SENSmiLlTr.

and naturally without expression; but a lucky
contraction of the brow had rescued her counte-
nance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it
the strong characters of pride and ill-nature. She
was not a woman of many words; for, unlike peo-
ple in general; she proportioned them to the num-
ber of her ideas ; and of the few syllables that did
escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dash-
wood, whom she eyed with the spirited determina-
tion of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not now be made unhappy by this
behavior. A few months ago it would have hurt
her exceedingly ; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars's
power to distress her by it now; and the difference
of her manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference
which seemed purposely made to humble her more^
only amused her. She could not but smile to see
the graciousness of both mother and daughter
towards the very person — for Lucy was particu-
larly distinguished — whom of all others, had they
known as much as she did, they would have been
most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who
had comparatively no power to wound them, sat
pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled
at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not re-
flect on the mean-spirited folly from which it
sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with
which the Miss Steeles courted its continuaace,
without thoroughly despising them all four.

igENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 89

Ituey was all exultation on being so honorably
distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be
teased about Dr. Davis to be perfectly happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were
numerous, and everything bespoke the mistress's
inclination for show, and the master's ability to
support it. In spite of the improvements and
additions which were making to the Norland
Estate, and in spite of its owner having once been
within some thousand pounds of being obliged to
sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of
that indigence which he had tried to infer from it;
no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,
appeared; but there the deficiency was consider^
able. John Dashwood had not much to say for
himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had
still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in
this ; for it was very much the case with the chief of
their visitors, '.who almost all labored under one or
other of these disqualifications for being agreeable,
—want of sense, either natural or improved, want
of elegance, want of spirits, or want of temper.

When the ladies- withdrew to the drawing-room
after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, ^ .

for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse with fi i I C
some variety, — the variety of politics, enclosing n/^ [\
land, and breaking horses, — but then it was all
over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till
coffee came in, which was the comparative heights

1

^v

90 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

of Harry Dashwood and Lady Middleton's second
son William, who were nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affaii
might have been determined too easily by measur-
ing them at once; but as Harry only was present,
it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and
everybody had a right to be equally positive in
their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again
as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus : —

The two mothers, though each really convinced
that her own son was the tallest, politely decided
in favor of the other. The two grandmothers, with
not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally
earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one
parent than the other, thought the boys were both
I \\) remarkably tall for their age, and could not con-
I'' ^ ceive that there could be the smallest difference in
the world between them ; and Miss Steele, with yet
greater address, gave it, as fast as she could, in
favor of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion oi(
William's side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars
and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of
enforcing it by any further assertion; and Mari-
anne, when called on for hers, offended them all,
by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as
she had never thought about it.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 91

Before her removing from Borland; Elinor had
painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-
in-law; which being now just mounted and brought
home, ornamented her present drawing-room; and
these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood
on his following the other gentlemen into the
room, were oflSciously handed by him to Colone?
Brandon for his admiration.

"These are done by my eldest sister/' said he;
" and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be
pleased with them. I do not know whether you
ever happened to see any of her performances
before, but she is in general reckoned to draw
extremely well."

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions
to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as
he would have done anything painted by Miss
Dashwood; and the curiosity of the others being of
course excited, they were handed round for general
inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being
Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at
them; and after they had received the gratifying
testimony of Lady Middleton's approbation, Fanny
presented them to her mother, considerately inform-
ing her, at the same time, that they were done by
Miss Dashwood.

"Hum," said Mrs. Ferrars, "very pretty!"
and without regarding them at all, returned them
to her daughter*

92 SENSE AND SENSIBILriT.

Perhaps Fanny thougnt for a moment that hex
mother had been quite rude enough; for, coloing
a little, she immediately said, —

*^They are very pretty, ma'am, a'n't theyf "
But then again the dread of haying been too civil,
too encouraging herself, probably came over htt^
for she presently added: **Do you not think they
are something in Miss Morton's style of painting,
ma'am? She does paint most delightfully! How
beautifully her last landscape is done I "

'^Beautifully indeed I But she does everything
well."

Marianne could not bear this. She was already
greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such
ill-timed praise of another at Elinor's expense,
though she had not any notion of what was prin-
cipally meant by it, provoked her immediately to
say with warmth, —

"This is admiration of a very particular kind!
What is Miss Morton to us? who knows or who
cares for her? It is Elinor of whom we think
and speak."

And so saying, she took the screens out of her
sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as
they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and
drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pro-
nounced in retort this bitter philippic: "Miss
Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 93

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband
was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. Elinor
was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than
she had been by what produced itj but Colonel
Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne,
declared that he noticed only what was amiable in
it, — the affectionate heart which could not bear to
see a sister slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne^s feelings did not stop here. The
cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars's general behavior
to her sister seemed to her to foretell such
difficulties and distresses to Elinor as her own
wounded heart taught her to think of with horror;
and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate
sensibility, she moved, after a moment, to her
sister's chair, and putting one arm round her
neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low
but eager voice —

"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't
let them make you unhappy."

She could say no more; her spirits were quite
overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoul-
der, she burst into tears. Everybody's attention
was called, and almost everybody was concerned.
Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without
knowing what he did. Mrs. Jennings, with a very
intelligent **Ah! poor dear!" immediately gave
her her salts ; and Sir John felt so desperately en-
raged against the author of this nervous distress

94 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

that lie instantly changed his seat to one close by
Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief
account of the whole shocking affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was re-
coTered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit
down among the rest; though her spirits retained
the impression of what had passed the whole
evening.

^^ Poor Marianne! " said her brother to Colonel
Brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could se-
cure his attention. ^^ She has not such good health
as her sister, she is very nervous, she has not
Elinor's constitution; and one must allow that
there is something very trying to a young woman
who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal
attractions. You would not think it, perhaps, but
Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months
ago, — quite as handsome as Elinor. Now you see
it is all gone.''

CHAPTER Vm.

Elinob's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satis*
fied. She had found in her everything that could
tend to make a further connection between the
families undesirable. She had seen enough of her
pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice
against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties
that must have perplexed the engagement and
retarded the marriage of Edward and herself, had
he been otherwise free; and she had seen almost
enough to be thankful, for her own sake, that one
greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under
any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her
from all dependence upon her caprice, or any
solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if
she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in
Edward^s being fettered to Lucy, she determined
that, had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to
have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so
very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars;
that her interest and her vanity should so very
much blind her as to make the attention which
seemed only paid her because she was not Minor

96 SENSE AND SENSIBILTIT.

appear a compliment to herself, or to allow her

to derive encouragement from a preference only

given her because her real situation was unknown. ^

But that it was so had not only been declared by

Lucy's eyes at. the time, but was declared over

again the next morning more openly; for at her

particular desire Lady Middleton set her down in

Berkeley Street, on the chance of seeing Elinor

alone, to tell her how happy she was. \

The chance proved a lucky one; for a message
from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived carried
Mrs. Jennings away.

'^ My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they
were by themselves, ^^ I come to talk to you of my
happiness. Could anything be so flattering as
Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So
exceedingly affable as she was ! You know now I
dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very
moment I was introduced, there was such an affa-
bility in her behavior as really should seem to say
she had quiic^ took a fancy to me. Now was not
it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite
struck with it?"

^* She was certainly very civil to you."

*' Civil ! Did you see nothing but only civility?
I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell
to the share of nobody but me I No pride, no
hauteur, and your sister just the same, — - all sweet- .

ness and affability!" I

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 97

Elinor wished to talk of something else; but
Lncy still pressed her to own that she had reason for
her happiness^ and Elinor was obliged to go on.

" Undoubtedly, if they had known your engage-
ment/' said she, ^'nothing could be more flatter-
ing than their treatment of you; but as that was
not the case — ''

''I guessed you would say so," replied Lucy,
quickly; ''but there was no reason in the world
why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she
did not, and her liking me is everything. You
sha'n't talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure
it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties
at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is
a charming woman, and so is your sister. They
are both delightful women indeed! I wonder I
should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.
Dashwood was! "

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did
not attempt any.

" Ajre you ill. Miss Dashwood? — you seem lowy
you don't speak; sure you a'n't well."

" I never was in better health."

"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really
you did not look it. I should be so sorry to have
you ill, — you, that have been the greatest comfort
to me in the world! Heaven knows what I should
have done without your friendship."

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though

VOL. II. — 7

98 SENSE AND SENSIBILITr.

doubting her own snocess* Bat it seemed to sat-
isfy Lucy, for she directly replied, —

** Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your re- i

gard for me, and, next to Edward's loye, it is the
greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now
there is one good thing, — we shall be able to meet,
and meet pretty often; for Lady Middleton's de-
lighted with Mrs. Dashwood^ so we shall be a good
deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward \

spends half his time with his sister. Besides,
Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;
and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so
good to say, more than once, they should always
be glad to see me. They are such charming
women! I am sure if ever you tell your sister
what I think of her, you cannot speak too high.'^

But Elinor would not give her any encourage-
ment to hope that she should tell her sister. Lucy
continued, —

'< I am sure I should have seen it in a moment,
if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she
had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance,
without saying a word, and never after had took
any notice of me, and never looked at me in a
pleasant way, — you know what I mean, — if I
had been treated in that forbidding sort of way,
I should have gave it all up in despair. I could
not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I
know it is most violent.'^

I

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 09

Elinor was preyented from making any itply to
this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown
open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the counte-
nance of each showed that it was so. They all
looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to
have as g^eat an inclination to walk out of the
room again as to advance farther into it. The
very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form,
which they would each have been most anxious
to avoid, had fallen on them. They were not only
all three together, but were together without the
relief of any other person. The ladies recovered
themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to
put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy
must still be kept up. She could therefore only
look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing
him, said no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious wm
she, for his sake and her own, to do it well| that
she forced herself, after a moment's recoUeotion,

«

to welcome him, with a look and manner thut were
almost easy and almost open; and another strug-
gle, another effort still imprcrad them. She
would not allow the presenee of Lucy, nor the
consciousness of some injostiee towards herself, to
deter her from saying that she was happy to see
hm, and tliat she had very much regretted being

100 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTr.

iron koiDe when he called before in Berkeley
Street. She would not be frightened from paying
him those attentions which, as a friend and almost
a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of
Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be nar-
rowly watching her.

Her manners gave some reassurance to Edward,
and he had courage enough to sit down; but his
embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies
in a proportion which the case rendered reasonable,
though his sex might make it rare; for his heart
had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his
conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed
determined to make no contribution to the comfort
of the others, and would not say a word; and
almost everything that w<i8 said proceeded from
Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the in-
formation about her mother's health, their coming
to town, etc., which Edward ought to have inquired
about, but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon
afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to
determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne
to leave the others by themselves; and she really
did it, and thai in the handsomest manner, for Am
loitered away several minutes on the landing-pbeey
with the most high- minded fortitude, before she
went to her sister. When that wan onoe doni^ bcw-

i

SENSE AND SENSIBILITr. 101

eyer, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease ;
for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-
room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him
was, like every other of her feelings, strong in it-
self and strongly spoken. She met him with a
hand that would be taken, and a Toice that ex-
pressed the affection of a sister.

'^ Dear Edward! " she cried, ^^ this is a moment
of great happiness! This would almost make
amends for everything! "

Edward tried to return her kindness as it de-
served, but before such witnesses he dared not say
half what he really felt. Again they all sat down,
and for a moment or two all were silent; while
Marianne was looking with the most speaking ten-
derness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at
Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each
other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome
presence. Edward was the first to speak; and it
was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and ex-
press his fear of her not finding London agree
with her.

"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied, with
spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled
with tears as she spoke; " don't think of my health.
Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for
us both."

This remark was not calculated to make Edward
or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will

102 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very
benignant expression.

*'Doyou like London?" said Edward, willing
to say anything that might introduce another
subject.

^'Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it,
but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward,
is the only comfort it has afforded; and^ thank
Heaven! you are what you always were!''

She paused, — no one spoke.

^*I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we
must employ Edward to take care of us in our re-
turn to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we
shall be going; and I trust Edward will not be
very unwilling to accept the charge."

Poor Edward muttered something; but what it
was nobody knew, not even himself. But Mari-
anne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace
it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was per-
fectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.

*' We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street
yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! But I
have much to say to you on that head, which can-
not be said now."

And with this admirable discretion did she defer
the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives
more disagreeable than ever, and of her being par-
ticularly disguste.d with his mother, till they were
more in private.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 103

" But why were you not there, Edward? Why
did you not come? "

^'I was engaged elsewhere.^'

^^ Engaged! But what was that, when such
friends were to be met? "

^* Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager
to take some revenge on her, ^*you think young
men never stand upon engagements, if they have
no mind to keep them, little as well as great."

Elinor was very angry; but Marianne seemed
entirely insensible of the sting, for she calmly
replied, —

"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am
very sure that conscience only kept Edward from
Harley Street. And I really believe he has the
most delicate conscience in the world; the most
scrupulous in performing every engagement, how-
ever minute, and however it may make against his
interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of
giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most
incapable of being selfish, of anybody I ever saw.
Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are
you never to hear yourself praised? Then you
must be no friend of mine; for those who will
accept of my love and esteem must submit to my
open commendation."

The nature of her commendation in the present
case, however, happened to be particularly ill suited
to the feeling, of two thirds of her auditors, and

104 SENSE AND SENSIBIIJTT.

was 80 very unexhilarating to Edward that he very
soon got up to go away.

^< Going so soon!'' said Marianne; ^^my dear
Edward, this must not be."

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered
her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much
longer. But even this encouragement failed, for
he would go; and Lucy, who would hare out-
stayed him had his visit lasted two hours, soon
afterwards went away.

^^What can bring her here so often?" said
Marianne, on her leaving them. ^^ Could she not
see that we wanted her gone? How teasing to
Edward! "

"Why so? We were all his friends, and Lucy
has been the longest known to him of any. It is
but natural that he should like to see her as well
as ourselves."

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said: "You
know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which
I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your as-
sertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the
case, you ought to recollect that I am the last per-
son in the world to do it. I cannot descend to
be tricked out of assurances that are not really
wanted."

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not
follow her to say more, for, bound as she was by
her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 105

information that would convince Marianne; and
painful as the consequences of her still continuing
in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to
it. All that she could hope was, that Edward
would not often expose her or himself to the dis-
tress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor
to the repetition of any other part of the pain that
had attended their rocent meeting; and this sht
had every reason to expect.

CHAPTER IX.

Within a few days after thia meeting the news-
papers announced to the w^rld that the lady of
Thomas Palmer, Esq., was safely delivered of a
son and heir, — a very interesting and satisfactory
paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections
who knew it hefore.

This event, inghly important to Mrs. Jennings's
happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the
disposal of her time, and '^ifluenced in a like de-
gree the engagements of her young friends; for as
she wished to be as much as possible with Char-
lotte, she went thither every naming as soon as
she was dressed, and did not returs till late in the
evening; and the Miss Dashwoods,at the particu-
lar request of the Middletons, spent the whole of
every day in Conduit Street. For thi^r own com-
fort, they would much rather have chained, at
least all the morning, in Mrs. Jenning's house;
but it was not a thing to be urged aginst the
wishes of everybody. Their hours were herefore
made over to Lady Middleton and the wo Miss
Steeles, by whom their company was, ii tMcty as
little valued as it was professedly sought.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 107

They had too much sense to he desirable com-
panions to the former; and hy the latter they were
considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on their
ground, and sharing the kindness which they
wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could be
more polite than Lady Middleton's behavior to
Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them
at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor
her children, she could not believe them good-
natured; and because they were fond of reading,
she fancied them satirical, — perhaps without ex-
actly knowing what it was to be satirical; but that
did not signify. It was censure in common use,
and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and
on Lucy. It checked the idleness of one, and the
business of the other. Lady Middleton was
ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the
flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and ad-
minister at other times she feared they would de-
spise her for' offering. Miss Steele was the least
discomposed of the three by their presence ; and it
was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely.
Would either of them only have given her a full
and minute account of the whole affair between
Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have
thought herself amply rewarded for the sacHfice of
the best place by the fire after dinner, which their
arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not

108 SE^SK AND SENSIBIUTlt.

granted; for though she often threw out expres-
sions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than
once dropped a reflection on the inconsistency of
beaux before Marianne, no efEect was produced, but
a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust
in the latter. An e£Eort even yet lighter might
have made her their friend, — would they only
have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so
little were they, any more than the others, in-
clined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from
home she might spend a whole day without hear-
ing any other raillery on the subject than what
she was kind enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however,
were so totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings,
that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls
to be together, and generally congratulated her
young friends every night on having escaped the
company of a stupid old woman so long. She
joined them sometimes at Sir John's, and some-
times at her own house; but wherever it was, she
always came in excellent spirits, full of delight
and importance, attributing Charlotte's well-doing
to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so mi-
nute a detail of her situation as only Miss Steele
had curiosity enough to desire. One thing did
disturb her; and of that she made her daily com-
plaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common but
unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all in&nts

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 109

being alike; and thougli she could plainly per-
ceive at different times the most striking resem-
blance between this baby and every one of hia
relations on both sides, there was no convincing
his father of it, no persuading him to believe that
it was not exactly like every other baby of the
same age ; nor could he even be brought to acknowl-
edge the simple proposition of its being the finest
child in the world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune which
about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so
happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jen-
nings were first calling on her in Harley Street,
another of her acquaintance had dropped in, — a
circumstance in itself not apparently likely to
produce evil to her. But while the imaginations
of other people will carry them away to form wrong
judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by
slight appearances, one's happiness must in some
measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the
present instance this last-arrived lady allowed, her
fancy so far to outrun truth and probability that
on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dash-
woods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dash-
wood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to
be staying in Harley Street ; and this misconstruc-
tion produced, within a day or two afterwards,
cards of invitation for them, as well as for their
brother and sister, to a small musical party at her

110 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

house; the consequence of which was that Mz«.
John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to
the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her
carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was
still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasant-
ness of appearing to treat them with attention;
and who could tell that they might not expect to
go out with her a second time? The power of dis-
appointing them, it was true, must always be hers.
But that was not enough; for when people are de-
termined on a mode of conduct which they know to
be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of
anything better from them.

Marianne had now been brought, by degrees, so
much into the habit of going out every day, that
it was become a matter of indifference to her
whether she went or not; and she prepared quietly
and mechanically for every evening's engagement,
though without expecting the smallest amusement
from any, and very often without knowing, till the
last moment, where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so
perfectly indifferent as not to bestow half the
consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet,
which it received from Miss Steele in the first five
minutes of their being together, when it was
finished. Nothing escaped her minute observation
and general curiosity; she saw everything, and
Mked everything; was never easy till she knew

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. Ill

the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could
Iiave guessed the number of her gowns altogether
with better judgment than Marianne herself; and
was not without hopes of finding out, before they
parted, how much her washing cost per week, and
how much she had every year to spend upon her-
self. The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies,
moreover, was generally concluded with a com-
pliment, which, though meant as its douceurf was
considered by Marianne as the greatest imper-
tinence of all ; for after undergoing an examination
into the value and make of her gown, the color of
her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she
was almost sure of being told that, upon her
word, she looked vastly smart, and she dared to
say would make a great many conquests.

With such encouragement as this was she dis-
missed, on the present occasion, to her brother's
carriage; which they were ready to enter five
minutes after it stopped at the door, — a punctuality
not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had
preceded them to the house of her acquaintance,
and was there hoping for some delay on their part
that might inconvenience either herself or her
coachman.

The events of the evening were not very remark-
able. The party, like other musical parties, com-
prehended a great many people who had real taste
for the performance, and a great many more who

- -

112 SENSE AND SENSIBrLTTY.

had none at all; and the performers themselves
were, as usual, in their own estimation and that
of their immediate friends, the first private
performers in England.

As Elinor was neither musical nor affecting to
be so, she made no scruple of turning away her
eyes from the grand pianoforte whenever it suited
her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a
harp and a violoncello, would fix them at pleasure
on any other object in the room. In one of these
excursive glances she perceived, among a group
of young men, the very he who had given them
a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. She per-
ceived him soon afterwards looking at herself and
speaking familiarly to her hrother; and had just
determined to find out his name from the latter,
when they hoth came towards her, and Mr. Dash-
wood introduced him to her asJSIr. Robert Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twiste<
his head into a bow, which assured her, as plainly
as words could have done, that he was exactly the
coxcomb she had heard him described to be by
Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her regard
for Edward had depended less on his own merit
than on the merit of his nearest relations! For
then his brother's bow must have given the finish-
ing stroke to what the ill-humor of his mother and
sister would have begun. But while she wondered
at rthe difiEerence of the two young men, she did

I

I

SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT. 113

not find tbat the emptiness and conceit of the one
put her at all out of charity with the modesty and
worth of the other. Why they were different,
Bohert explained to her himself, in the coarse of a
quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of
his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie
which he really believed kept him from mixing in
proper society, he candidly and generously attri-
buted it much less to any natural deficiency than
to the misfortune of a private education; while he
himself, though probably without any particular,
any material superiority by nature, jnerely from
the adyaiit^^of a^ublic school^ was as well fitted
to mix in the world as any other man.

'^Upon my soul,'' he added, "I believe it is

nothing more; and so I often tell my mother,

when she is grieving about it. ^ My dear madam, '

» I always say to her, 'you must make yourself

; easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has

been entirely your own doing. Why would you be

persuaded by my uncle, Sir Eobert, against your

/ own judgment, to place Edward under private

tuition at the most critical time of his life? If

you had only sent him to Westminster as well as

myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all

this would have been prevented.' This is the

way in which I always consider the matter, and

my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because,

VOL. II. — 8

r

114 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

whatever might be her general estimatioii of the
advantage of a public school, she could not think
of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family with any
satisfaction.

'< You reside in Devonshire, I think/' was his
next observation, — " in a cottage near Dawlish."

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it
seemed rather surprising to him that anybody
could live in Devonshire without living near
Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation,
however, on their species of house.

** For my own part," said he, " I am excessively
• fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort,
80 much elegance about them. And I protest, if
I had any money to spare, I should buy a little
land and build one myself, within a short distance
of London, where I might drive myself down at
any time, and collect a few friends about me, and
be happy. I advise everybody who is going
to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord
Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to
ask my advice, and laid before me three different
plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of
them. ^ My dear Courtland, ' said I, immediately
throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt
either of them, but by all means build a cottage.'
And that, I fancy, will be the end of it.

" Some people imagine that there can be no
accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is

I

1

I

SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT. 115

all a mistake. I was last month at my friend
Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to
give a dance. ^But how can it be done?' said
she ; ' my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be
I managed. There is not a room in this cottage that

will hold ten couples; and where can the supper
be? ' 1 immediately saw that there could be no
difficulty in it; so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott,
do not be uneasy. The dining-parlor will admit
eighteen couples with ease; card-tables may be
placed in the drawing-room; the library may be
open for tea and other refreshments; and let the
supper be set out in the saloon.' Lady Elliott
was delighted with the thought. We measured
the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly
eighteen couples, — and the affair was arranged
I precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see,

if people do but know how to set about it, every
comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in
the most spacious dwelling."

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he
deserved the compliment of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in
music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally
at liberty to fix on anything else ; and a thought
struck him, during the evening, which he com-
municated to his wife, for her approbation, when
they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Den-
niflon's mistake in supposing his sisters theii

F

116 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

gruests had suggested the propriety of their being
really invited to become such while Mrs. Jen-
nings's engagements kept her from home. The
expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not
more; and it was altogether an attention which
the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his
promise to his father. Fanny was startled at the
proposal.

''I do not see how it can be done," said she,
'^without affronting Lady Middleton, for they
spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always
ready to pay them any attention in my power, as
my taking them out this evening^shows. But they
sure Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask
them away from her?"

Her husband, but with great humility, did not
see the force of her objection. *' They had already
spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and
Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their
giving the same number of days to such near
relations."

Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh
vigor, said, —

^^ My love, I would ask them with all my heart,
if it was in my power. But I had just settled
within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a
few days with us. They are very well behavedj

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 117

good kind of girls; and I think the attention is
due to them, as their uncle did so very well by
Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year,
you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in
town any more. I am sure you will like them;
indeed, you do like them, you know, very much
already, and so does my mother; and they are such
favorites with Harry! ''

Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the ne«
cessity of inviting the Miss Steeles immediately ;
and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
of inviting his sisters another year; at the same
time, however, slyly suspecting that another year
would make the invitation needless, by bringing
Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Ma*
rianne as their visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the
ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next
morning to Lucy, to request her company and her
sister's for some days in Harley Street, as soon
as Lady Middleton could spare them. This was
enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy.
Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her
herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting
all her views ! Such an opportunity of being with
Edward and his family was, above all things, the
most material to her interest, and such an invita-
tion the most gratifying to her feelings! It was
(in advantage that could not be too gratefully ac

118 8EN8E AND SENSIBIUTT.

knowledged, nor too speedily nude use of; and the
visit to Lady Middleton, which ha4 not before had
any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have
been always meant to end in two days' time.

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was
within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her
for the first time some share in the expectations of
Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness,
vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to
declare that the good will towards her arose from
something more than merely malice against her-
self, and might be brought, by time and address,
to do everything that Lucy wished. Her flatteiy
had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton,
and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John
Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open
the probability of greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street $ and
all that reached Elinor of their influence there
strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir
John, who called on them more than once, brought
home such accounts of the favor they were in as
must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood
had never been so much pleased with any young
women in her life as she was with them, — had
given each of them a needle-book made by some
emigrant, called Lucy by her Christian name, and
did not know whether she should ever be able to
part with them.

CHAPTER X.

Mrs. FaIiMISB was so well at the end of a fortnight
that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give
up the whole of her time to her; and contenting
herself with visiting her once or twice a day, re-
turned from that period to her own home and her
own hahits, in which she found the Miss Dash-
woods very ready to reassume their former share.

Ahout the third or fourth morning after their
being thus re-settled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jen-
nings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs.
Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor
was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurry-
ing importance as prepared her to hear something
wonderful, and giving her time only to form that
idea, began directly to justify it by saying, —

'^Lord! my dear Miss Dash wood! have you
heard the news?'*

" No, ma'am. What is it? "

^^ Something so strange! But you shall hear it
all. When I got to Mr. Palmer's, I found Char-
lotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure
it was very ill, — it cried, and fretted, and was all
over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and.

120 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

'Lord! my dear/ says I, 'it is nothing in the
world but the red g^m; ' and nurse said just the
same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied,
so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he hap-
pened to be just come in from Harley Street, so he
stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw
the child, he said just as we did, that it was noth-
ing in the world but the red gum, and then Char-
lotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away
again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not
know how I happened to think of it, but it came
into my head to ask him if there was any news.
So upon that he smirked, and simpered, and looked
grave, and seemed to know something or other, and
at last he said in a whisper, ' For fear any un-
pleasant report should reach the young ladies un-
der your care as to their sister's indisposition, I
think it advisable to say that I believe there is no
great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will
do very well.' "

"What! is Fanny ill?"

''That is exactly what I said, my dear.
'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs. Dashwood ill?' So
then it all came out; and the long and the short
of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this.
Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to
joke with you about, — but, however, as it turns
out, I am monstrous glad there never was anything
in it, — Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 121

engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy!
There's for you, my dear I And not a creature
knowing a syllable of the matter except Nancy I
Could you have believed such a thing possible?
There is no great wonder in their liking one an
other; but that matters should be brought so for-
ward between them, and nobody suspect it ! That
is strange ! I never happened to see them together,
or I am sure I should have found it out directly.
Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear
of Mrs. Eerrars, and neither she nor your brother
or sister suspected a word of the matter, till this
very morning poor Nancy, who, you know, is a
well-meaning creature but no conjurer, popped it all
out. ^ Lord I ' thinks she to herself, ^they are all
so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no diffi-
culty about it; ' and so away she went to your sis-
ter, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work,
little suspecting what was to come, — for she had
just been saying to your brother, only five minutes
before, that she thought to make a match between
Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I for-
get who. So you may think what a blow it was
to all her vanity and pride. She fell into vio-
lent hysterics immediately, with such screams as
reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in
his own dressing-room downstairs, thinking about
writing a letter to his steward in the country. So
up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place;

122 SENSE AIH) SENSIBILITY.

for Lucy was come to them by that time, little
dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity
her. And I must say, I think she was used very
hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and
soon drove her into a fainting-fit. Nancy, she
fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your
brother, he walked about the room, and said he did
not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared
they should not stay a minute longer in the house ;
and your brother was forced to go down upon his
knees, too, to persuade her to let them stay till
they had packed up their clothes. Then she fell
into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that
he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan
found the house in all this uproar. The carriage
was at the door ready to take my poor cousins
away, and they were just stepping in as he came
off, — poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she
could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as
bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sis-
ter; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a
match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor
Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it I To
have his love used so scornfully! — for they say he
is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should
not wonder if he was to be in the greatest of a
passion; and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same.
He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and
the best of all is that he is gone back again to

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 123

Harley Street, that he may be within call when
Mrs. Ferrars is told of it; for she was sent for as
soon as ever my cousins left the house, — for your
sister was sure 8?ie would be in hysterics too; and
so she may for what I care. I have no pity for
either of them. I have no notion of people's mak-
ing such a to-do about money and greatness. There
is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy
should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may
afford to do very well by her son ; and though Lucy
has next to nothing herself, she knows better than
anybody how to make the most of everything; and
I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him
five hundred a year, she would make as good an ap-
pearance with it as anybody else would with eight.
Lord! how snug they might live in such another
cottage as yours, — or a little bigger, — with two
-maids and two men; and I believe I could help
them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out
of place, that would fit them exactly."

Here_M£§U.j[enning8 ceased; and as Elinor had
had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was
able to give such an answer and make such obser-
vations as the subject might naturally be supposed
to produce. Happy to find that she was not sus-
pected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs.
Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be
the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached
to Edward; and happy, above all- the rest, in the

I

I

124 SENSE AND SENSIBILITr.

absence of Marianne, — she felt very well able
to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and
to give her judgment, as she believed, with impar-
tiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expec-
tation of its event really was; though she earnestly
tried to drive away the notion of its being possible
to end otherwise at last than in the marriage of
Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say
and do, though there could not be a doubt of its
nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more
anxious to know how Edward would conduct him-
self. For him she felt much compassion; for
Lucy very little, — and it cost her some pains to
procure that little ; for the rest of the party none
at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject,
Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing Mari*
anne for its discussion. Ko time was to be lost in
undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with
the real truth, and in endeavoring to bring her to
hear it talked of by others without betraying that
she felt any uneasiness for her sister or any re-
sentment against Edward.

Elinor's office was a painful one. She was going
to remove what she really believed to be her sister's
chief consolation, — to give such particulars of Ed-
ward as she feared would ruin him forever in her
good opinion, — and to make Marianne, by a re-

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 125

semblance in their situations, which to her fancy
would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment
over again. But unwelcome as such a task must
be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor there*
fore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her
own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering
much, any otherwise than as the self-command she
had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's
engagement might suggest a hint of what was prac-
ticable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and
simple; and though it could not be given without
emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agita-
tion nor impetuous grief. Thtit belonged rather
to the hearer; for Marianne listened with horror,
and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the com-
forter of others in her own distresses no less than
in theirs ; and all the comfort that could be given
by assurances of her own composure of mind, and
a very earnest vindication of Edward from every
charge but of imprudence, was readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit
to neither. Edward seemed a second Willoughby;
and acknowledging as Elinor did that she had
loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than
herseK? As for Lucy Steele, she considered her
so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of at-
taching a sensible man, that she could not be per-
suaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon,

126 SENSE AIH) SENSIBILITY.

any former affection of Edward for her. She wonld
not even admit it to have been natural ; and Elinor
left her to be convinced that it was so by that
which only could convince her, a better knowledge
of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no further
than to state the fact of the engagement, and the
length of time it had existed. Marianne's feelings
had then broken in, and put an end to all regular-
ity of detail ; and for some time all that could be
done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms,
and combat her resentment. The first question on
her side, which led to further particulars, was, —

''How long has this been known to you, Elinor?
Has he written to you? "

"I have known it these four months. When
Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she
told me in confidence of her engagement."

At these words Marianne's eyes expressed the
astonishment which her lips could not utter. Af-
ter a pause of wonder, she exclaimed, —

'^Four months! Have you known of this four
months? "

Elinor confirmed it.

'' What I while attending me in all my misery,
has this been on your heart? and I have reproached
you for being happy! "

'' It was not fit that you should then know how
much I was the reverse.^'

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 127

"Four months! " cried Marianne, again. "So
calm, so cheerful I How have you been supported? "

"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My
promise to Lucy obliged me to be secret. I owed
it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the
truth ; and I owed it to my family and friends not
to create in them a solicitude about me which it
could not be in my power to satisfy."

Marianne seemed much struck.

"I have very often wished to undeceive your-
self and my mother," added Elinor, "and once or
twice I have attempted it; but without betraying
my trust, I never could have convinced you."

"Four months! and yet you loved him! "

" Yes. But I did not love only him; and while
the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to
spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now,
I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I
would not have you suffer on my account; for I
assure you I no longer suffer materially myself.
I have many things to support me. I am not con-
scious of having provoked the disappointment by
any imprudence of my own, and I have borne it as
much as possible without spreading it further. I
acquit Edward of all essential misconduct. I wish
him very happy; and I am so sure of his always
doing his duty, that though now he may harbor
some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy
does not want sense ; and that is the foundation on

i

128 SENSE AND SENSffilLmr.

which everything good may be built. And after
Jill; Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the
idea of a single and constant attachment, and all
that can be said of one's happiness depending en-
tirely on any particular person, it is not meant,
it is not fit, it is not possible that it should be
so. Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a
woman superior in person and understanding to
half her sex ; and time and habit will teach him to
forget that he ever thought another superior to
her:'

*'If such is your way of thinking," said Ma-
rianne, '^if the loss of what is most valued is so
easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are perhaps a
little less to be wondered at. They are brought
more within my comprehension."

" I understand you. You do not suppose that I
have-ever Jelt much. For four months, Marianne,
I have had all this' hanging on my mind without
being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature;
knowing that it would -make you and my mother
most unhappy whenever it were explained to you,
yet unable to prepase^jrou for it in the least. It
was told me, — it was in a manner forced on me
by the very person herself, whose prior engagement
ruined all my prospects ; and told me, as I thought,
with triumph. This person's suspicions, there-
fore, I have had to oppose, by endeavoring to ap-

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 129

pear indifferent where I have been most deeply
interested; and it has not been only once: I have
had her hopes and exaltation to listen to again and
again. I have known myself to be divided from
Edward forever, without hearing one circumstance
that could make me less desire the connection.
Nothing has proved him unworthy, nor has any-
thing declared him indifferent to me. I have had
to contend against the unkindness of his sister and
the insolence of his mother, and have suffered the
punishment of an attachment without enjoying its
advantages. And all this has been going on at a
time when, as you too well know, it has not been
my only unhappiness. If you can think me capa-
ble of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that ]y
I have suffered now. The composure of mind with
which I have brought myself at present to consider
the matter, the consolation that I have been willing
to admit, have been the effect of constant and pain-
ful exertion : they did not spriiig up of themselves ;
they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.
No, Marianne. Then, if J^ had not been bound to
silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me en-
tirely, not even what I owed to my dearest friends,
from openly showing that I was very unhappy.'^

Marianne was quite subdued.

" Oh, Elinor,'' she cried, ^^you have made me
hate myself forever. How barbarous have I been
to you, — you, who have been my only comfort^
toimU. — 9

130 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

who have borne with me in all my misery, who
have seemed to be only suftering for me ! Is this
my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make
you? Because your merit cries out upon myself V
I have been trying to do it away."

The tenderest caresses followed this confession.
In such a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor
had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever
promise she required; and at her request Mari-
anne engaged never to speak of the affair to any
one with the least appearance of bitterness; to
meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase
of dislike to her; and even to see Edward himself,
if chance should bring them together, without any
diminution of her usual cordiality. These were
great concessions; but where Marianne felt that
she had injured, no reparation could be too much
for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreety to
admiration. She attended to all that Mrs. Jen-
nings had to say upon the subject, with an unchang-
ing complexion, dissented from her in nothing,
and was heard three times to say, ** Yes, ma'am."
She listened to her praise of Lucy with only mov-
ing from one chair to another; and when Mrs.
Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it cost her
only a spasm in her throat. Such advances to-
wards heroism in her sister made Elinor feel equal
to anything herselt.

/

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 131

The next morning brought a farther trial of it^
in a visit from their brother, who came with a
most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair,
and bring them news of his wife.

'^You have heard, I suppose/' said he, with
great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, ''of
the very shocking discovery that took place under
our roof yesterday."

They all looked their assent; it seemed too
^wful a moment for speech.

"Your sister,'' he continued, "has suffered
dreadfully; Mrs. Ferrars too, — in short, it has
been a scene of such complicated distress, — but
I will hope that the storm may be weathered with-
out our being any of us quite overcome. Poor
Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But
I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says
there is nothing materially to be apprehended;
her constitution is a good one, and her resolution
equal to anything. She has borne it all with the
fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall
think well of anybody again; and one cannot
wonder at it, after being so deceived ! — meeting
with such ingratitude where so much kindness had
been shown, so much confidence had been placed!
It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart
that she had asked these young women to her
house, — merely because she thought they deserved
some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls^

1

132 SENSE AND SENSIBTLITT.

and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise
we both wished very much to have invited you and
Marianne to be with us while your kind friend
there was attending her daughter. And now to be
so rewarded! 'I wish^ with all my heart/ says
poor Fanny, in her affectionate way, Hhat we
had asked your sisters instead of them.' "

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being
done, he went on.

''What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered when first
Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described.
While she with the truest affection had been
planning a most eligible connection for him, was
it to be supposed that he could be all the time
secretly engaged to another person! — such a sus-
picion could never have entered her head! If she
suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could
not be in that quarter. ' There^ to be sure, ' said
she, 'I might have thought myself safe.^ She
was quite in an agony. We consulted together,
however, as to what should be done, and at last
she determined to send for Edward. He came. But
I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs.
Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the
engagement, assisted too, as you may well suppose,
by my arguments and Fanny's entreaties, was of
no avail. Duty, affection, everything was disre- J

garded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so
unfeeling before. His mother explained to him

SENSE AND SENSIBILrrY. 133

her liberal designs in case of his marrying Miss
Morton; told him she would settle on him the
Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in
a good thousand a year; offered even, when matters
grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and
in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this
low connection, represented to him the certain pen-
ury that must attend the match. His own two
thousand pounds she protested should be his all;
she would never see him again ; and so far would
she be from affording him the smallest assistance,
that if he were to enter into any profession with
a view of better support, she would do all in her
power to prevent his advancing in it.'^

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation,
clapped her hands together, and cried, ''Gracious
God! can this be possible?"

" Well may you wonder, Marianne,'' replied her
brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such
arguments as these! Your exclamation is very
natural.''

Marianne was going to retort; but she remem-
bered her promises, and forbore.

"All this, however," he continued "was urged
in vain. Edward said very little; but what
he did say was in the 'most determined manner.
Nothing should prevail on him to give up his
engagement. He would stand to it^ cost him
what it might."

134 SENSE AKB SSNSIBILnT.

''Then,'' cried Mrs. Jennings, with blunt
sincerity, no longer able to be silent, ''he has
acted like an honest man! I beg jonr pardon,
Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I
should have thought him a rascal. I have some
little concern in the business, as well as yourself,
for Lucy Steele is my cousin; and I believe there
is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one
who more deserves a good husband."

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his
nature was calm, not open to provocation; and he
never wished to offend anybody, especially any-
body of good fortune. He therefore replied with-
out any resentment, —

" I would by no means speak disrespectfully of
any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele
is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman ; but
in the present case, you know, the connection must
be impossible. And to have entered into a secret
engagement with a young man under her uncle's
care, the son of a woman especially of such very
large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is, perhaps, alto-
gether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not
mean to reflect upon the behavior of any person
whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We
all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's
conduct throughout the whole has been such as
every conscientious, good mother in like circum-
stances would adopt. It has been dignified and

SENSE AND SENSIBILnT. 135

liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I
fear it will be a bad one."

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension;
and Elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of Ed-
ward, while braving his mother's threats, for a
woman who could not reward him.

"Well, sir,'' said Mrs. Jennings, "and how
did it end?''

" I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy
rupture. Edward is dismissed forever from his
mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but
where he is gone, or whether he is still in town,
I do not know; for we of course can make no
inquiry."

" Poor young man! and what is to become of
him?"

"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy
consideration. Bom to the prospect of such afflu-
ence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplora-
ble. The interest of two thousand pounds, — how
can a man live on it ! And when to that is added
the recollection that he might, but for his own
folly, within three months have been in the re-
ceipt of two thousand five hundred a year (for Miss
Morton has thirty thousand pounds), I cannot pic-
ture to myself a more wretched condition. We
must all feel for him ; and the more so, because it
is totally out of our power to assist him."

''Poor young man! " cried Mrs. Jennings, ''I

136 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

am sure he should be very welcome to bed and
board at my house ; and so I would tell him if I
could see him. It is not fit that he should be liv-
ing about at his own charge now, at lodgings and
taverns."

Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness
towards Edward, though she could not forbear
smiling at the form of it.

'^ If he would only have done as well by him-
self," said John Dashwood, ''as all his friends
were disposed to do by him, he might now have
been in his proper situation^ and would have
wanted for nothing; but as it is, it must be out
of anybody's power to assist him. And there is
one thing more preparing against him, which must
be worse than all, — his mother has determined,
with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle that
estate upon Robert immediately, which might have
been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her
this morning with her lawyer, talking over the
business."

"Well," said Mrs. Jennings, '* that is A^ re-
venge. Everybody has a way of their own. But
I don't think mine would be to make one son in-
dependent because another had plagued me."

Marianne got up and walked about the room. '

"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of
a man," continued John, "than to see his younger
brother in possession of an estate which might have

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 137

been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him
sincerely."

A few minutes more, spent in the same kind
of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated
assurances to his sisters that he really believed
there was no material danger in Fanny's indispo-
sition, and that they need not therefore be very
uneasy about it, he went away, leaving the three
ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the pres-
ent occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs.
Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and Edward's.

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he
quitted the room; ai^l as her vehemence made re-
serve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in
Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited
critique upon the party.

CHAPTEB XL

Mas. Jennings was very warm in her praise of
Edward's conduce^ but only Elinor and Marianne
understood its true merit. They only knew how.
little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient,
and how small was the consolation, beyond the
consciousness of doing right, that could remain to
him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor
gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all
his offences in compassion for his punishment.
But though confidence between them was, by this
public discovery, restored to its proper state, it
was not a subject on which either of them was
fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it
upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon
her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assur-
ances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's con-
tinued afEection for herself which she rather wished
to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed
her, in trying to converse upon a topic which al-
ways left her more dissatisfied with herself than
ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced
between Elinor's conduct and her own-

i

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 139

*^he felt all the force of that comparison; but*^
not, as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion
now: she felt it with all the pain of continual
self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had
never exerted herself before; but it brought only
the torture of penitence, without the hope of
amendment. Her mind was so much weakened
that she still fancied present exertion impossible,
and therefore it only dispirited her more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or
two afterwards, of affairs in Harley Street or Bart-
lett's Buildings. But though so much of the
matter was known to them already that Mrs.
Jennings might have had enough to do in spread-
ing that knowledge further without seeking after
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit
of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as
she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more
visitors than usual had prevented her going to
them within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the
particulars was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday as
to draw many to Kensington G-ardens, though it
was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jen-
nings and Elinor were of the number; but Mari- ^^
anne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again
in town, and had a constant dread of meeting
them, chose rather to stay at home than venture
into so public a place.

*J.

140 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings
joined them soon after they entered the Gardens;
and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
with them and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's con-
yersation, she was herself left to quiet reflection.
She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of
Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody
who could by any chance, whether grave or gay, be
interesting to her. But at last she found herself,
with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,
though looking rather shy, expressed great satis-
faction in meeting them ; and on receiving encour-
agement from the particular kindness of Mrs.
Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to
join theirs. Mrs. Jennings immediately whis-
pered to Elinor, —

'' Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell
you anything, if you ask. You see I cannot leave
Mrs. Clarke."

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's cu-
riosity and Elinor's too, that she would tell any-
thing without being asked; for nothing would
otherwise have been learned.

"I am so glad to meet you," said Miss Steele,
taking her familiarly by the arm, ^'for I wanted
to see you of all things in the world." And then
lowering her voice, '* I suppose Mrs. Jennings has
heard all about it. Is she angry? "

"Not at all, I believe, with you."

\

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 141

^* That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton,
is she angry?"

^* I cannot suppose it possible that she should."

''I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I
have had such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in
such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she
would never trim me up a new bonnet^ nor do any-
thing else for me again, so long as she lived j but
now she is quite come to, and we are as good
friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to
my hat, and put in the feather last night. There
now, you are going to laugh at me too. But why
should not I wear pink ribands? I do not care if
it is the Doctor's favorite color. I am sure, for
my part, I should never have known he did like it
better than any other color, if he had not happened
to say 80. My cousins have been so plaguing me!
I declare, sometimes I do not know which way to
look before them."

She had wandered away to a subject on which
Elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon
judged it expedient to find her way back again
to the first.

"Well, but. Miss Dashwood," speaking trium-
phantly, " people may say what they choose about
|iir. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy,
'—for it 's no such thing, I can tell you; and it 's
quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be
spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about

142 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTr.

it herself, you know, it was no business of other
people to set it down for certain."

<'I never heard anything of the kind hinted at
before, I assure you/' said Elinor.

'^Oh, did not you? But it vtias said, I know,
very well, and by more than one; for Miss Grodby
told Miss Sparks that nobody in their senses could
expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss
Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her for-
tune, for Lucy Steele, that had nothing at all ; and
I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides
that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it
came to the point, he was afraid Mr. Ferrars
would be off; and when Edward did not come near
us for three days, I could not tell what to think
myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up
all for lost; for we came away from your brother's
Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not
know what was become with him. Once Lucy
thought to write to him, but then her spirit rose
against that. However, this morning he came
just as we came home from church ; and then it aU
came out how he had been sent for Wednesday to
Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother
and all of them, and how he had declared before
them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and no-
body but Lucy would he have. And how he had
been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 143

had went away from his mother's house, he had
got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some-
where or other; and how he had stayed ahout at
an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get
the hotter of it. And after thinking it all over
and oyer again, he said, it seemed to him as if,
now he had no fortune and no nothing at all, it
would he quite unkind to keep her on to the en-
gagement, hecause it must he for her loss, for he
bad nothing hut two thousand pounds, and no hope
of anything else; and if he was to go into orders,
as he had some thoughts, he could g^t nothing hut
a curacy; and how was they to live upon that?
He could not bear to think of her doing no better,
and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it,
to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him
to shift for himself. I heard him say all this as
plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely
for her sake and upon her account that he said a
word about being off, and not upon his own. I
will take my oath he never dropped a syllable of
being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss
Morton, or anything like it. But, to be sure,
Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talk-
ing; so she told him directly (with a great deal
about sweet and love, you know, and all that —
Oh, la I one can't repeat such kind of things, you
know), — she told him directly she had not the
least mind in the world to be off, for she could live

144 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

with him upon a trifle, and how little soeyer he
might have, she should he very glad to have it all,
you know, or something of the kind. So then he
was monstrous happy, and talked on some time
about what they should do, and they agreed he
should take orders directly, and they must wait to
he married till he got a living. And just then I
could not hear any more, for my cousin called ^m
below to tell me Mrs. Bichardson was come in her
coach, and would take one of us to Kensington
Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and
interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, .
but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just
run upstairs and put on a pair of silk stockings,
and came off with the Bichardsons."

^< I do not understand what you mean by inter-
rupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the
same room together, were not you?"

"Ko, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dash wood, do
you think people make love when anybody else is
by? Oh, for shame! To be sure, you must know
better than that" (laughing affectedly). "No,
no; they were shut up in the drawing-room to-
gether, and all I heard was only by listening at
the door." .

" How! " cried Elinor; " have you been repeat-
ing to me what you only learned yourself by lis-
tening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it
before ; for I certainly would not have suffered you

SENSE AND SENSLBILITT. 145

to give me particulars of a conversation whicli yoa
ought not to have known yourself. How could you
behave so unfairly by your sister? ''

<^0h, la! there is nothing in that. I only
stood at the door^ and heard what I could. And I
am sure Lucy would have done just the same by
me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe
and I had so many secrets together, she never made
any bones of hiding in a closet or behind a chim-
ney-board, on purpose to he^ what we said."

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss
Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of min-
utes from what was uppermost in her mind.

'^ Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said
she; ^' but now he is lodging at No. — Pall Mall.
What an ill-natured woman his mother is, a'n't
she? And your brother and sister were not very
kind! However, I sha'n't say anything against
them to you; and to be sure, they did send us
home in their own chariot, which was more than I
looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright
for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes
she had gave us a day or two before ; but, however,
nothing was said about them, and I took care to
keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some
business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there
for a time; and after thaty as soon as he can light
upon a bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder
what curacy he will get I Good gracious! " (gig-

VOL. II. — 10

146 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

gling as she spoke), '' I 'd lay my life I know what
my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They
will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get
Edward the curacy of his new living. I know
they will; but I am sure I would not do such a
thing for all the world. 'La!' I shall say
directly, ' I wonder how you could think of such
a thing, /write to the Doctor, indeed! ' "

^'Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be
prepared against the worst. You have got your
answer ready."

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same
subject, but the approach of her own party made
another more necessary.

^'Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a
vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay
away from them not any longer. I assure you they
are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous
deal of money, and they keep their own coach. I
have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it
myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear
she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton
the same ; and if anything should happen to take
you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very
glad to come and stay with her for as long a time
as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't
ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry
Miss Marianne was not here. Remember me

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 147

kindly to her. La! if you have not got your
spotted muslin on! I wonder you was not afxaid
of its being torn."

Such was her parting concern; for after this she
had time only to pay her farewell compliments to
Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by
Mrs. Bichardson; and Elinor was left in posses-
sion of knowledge which might feed her powers of
reflection some time, though she had learned very
little more than what had been already foreseen
and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's
marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on,
and the time of its taking place remained as abso-
lutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be ;
everything depended, exactly after her expecta-
tion, on his getting that preferment of which at
present there seemed not the smallest chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs.
Jennings was eager for information ; but as Elinor
wished to spread as little as possible intelligence
that had in the first place been so unfairly ob*
tained, she confined herself to the brief repetition
of such simple particulars as she felt assured that
Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would
choose to have known. The continuance of their
engagement, and the means that were to be taken
for promoting its end, was all her communication;
and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the follow-
ing natural remark : —

148 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

^'Wait lor his having a Imng! — ay, we all
know how thcU will end. They will wait a
twelvemonth^ and finding no good comes of it, will
set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a year, with
the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what
little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give
her. Then they will have a child eveiy year; and,
Lord help 'em! how poor they will he! I must
see what I can give them towards furnishing their
house. Two maids and two men^ indeed! as I
talked of t'other day. No, no, they must get a
stout girl of all works. Betty's sister would never
do for them now."

The next morning hrought Elinor a letter hy the
twopenny post from Lucy herself. It was as
follows : —

Babtlbtt's Buildings, Maicb.

I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty
I take of writing to her ; but I know your friendship for
me will make you pleased to hear such a good account
of myself and my dear Edward after all the troubles we
have went through lately, therefore will make no more
apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God I though we
have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and
as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We
have had great trials and great persecutions, but, however,
at the same time gratefully acknowledge many friends,
yourself not the least among them, whose great kind-
ness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward
too, who I have told of it. I am sure you will be glad to
hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy

SENSE AND SENSIBILnT. 149

honn with him yesterday afternoon : he would not hear
of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my
duty required, urge him to it for prudence' sake, and
would have parted forever on the spot, would he consent
to it ; but he said it should never be, he did not regard
his mother's anger, while he could have my affections;
our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must
wait, and hope for the best ; he will be ordained shortly ;
and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to
anybody that has a living to bestow, am very sure you
will not forget us ; and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she
will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer,
or any friend that may be able to assist us. — Poor Anne
was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the
best, so I say nothing ; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it
too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this
way any morning, 't would be a great kindness, and my
cousins would be proud to know her. — My paper reminds
me to conclude ; and begging to be most gratefully and
respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John and
Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance
to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,

I am, etc, etc.

As soon as Elinor had finished it; she performed
what she concluded to be its writer's real design,
by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who
read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction
and praise.

*'Veiy well, indeed! How prettily slie writes I
Ay, that was quite proper to let him be off if he
would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul I I
wish I could get him a living, with all my heart.

150 SENSE AND SENSIBILITr.

She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, yon see. She is
a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very well, upon
my word. That sentence is very prettily turned.
Tes, yeS; I will go and see her, sure enough.
How attentive she is to think of everybody I
Thank youi my dear, for showing it me. It is as
pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head
and heart great credit.''

CHAPTEE XIL

The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more
than two months in town^ and Marianne's impa-
tience to be gone increased every day. She sighed
for the air^ the liberty, the quiet of the country;
and fancied that if any place could give her ease,
Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious
than herself for their removal, and only so much
less bent on its being effected immediately, as that
she was conscious of the diflSculties of so long a
journey, which Marianne could not be brought to
acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to
turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment; and
had already mentioned their wishes to their kind
hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence
of her good-will, when a plan was suggested,
which, though detaining them from home yet a few
weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much
more eligible than any other. The Palmers were
to remove to Cleveland, about the end of March,
for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with
both her friends, received a very warm invitation
from Charlotte to go with them. This would not
in itself have been suflScient for the delicacy of

152 SENSE AND SENSIBrLTIT.

Miss Dash wood; but it was enforced with so mucli
real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself as, joined to
the very great amendment of his manners towards
them since her sister had been known to be un-
happy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done^
however, her first reply was not very auspicious.

'< Cleveland! '' she cried, with great agitation.
" No, I cannot go to Cleveland."

"You forget," said Elinor, gently, "that its
situation is not — that it is not in the neighborhood
of — "

"But it is in Somersetshire. I cannot go into
Somersetshire. There, where I looked forward to
going — No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to
go there."

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of
overcoming such feelings : she only endeavored to
counteract them by working on others ; and repre-
sented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix
the time of her returning to that dear mother,
whom she so much wished to see, in a more
eligible, more comfortable manner than any other
plan could do, and perhaps without any greater
delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few
miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not
beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and
their mother's servant might easily come there to
attend them down; and as there could be no

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 153

occasion for their staying above a week at Cleve-
land, they might now be. at home in little more
than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affection
for her mother was sincere, it must triumph, with
little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had
started.

Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of
her guests that she pressed them very earnestly
to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor
was grateful for the attention, but it could not
alter their design ; and their mother's concurrence
being readily gained, everything relative to their
return was arranged as far as it could be; and
Marianne found some relief in drawing up a state-
ment of the hours that weif yet to divide her from
Barton.

"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I
shall do without the Miss Dashwoods," was Mrs.
Jennings's address to him when he first called on
her, after their leaving her was settled; **for they
are quite resolved upon going home from the
Palmers ; and how forlorn we shall be when I come
back! Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another
as dull as two cats."

Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this
vigorous sketch of their future ennuif to provoke
him to make that offer which might give himself
an escape from it; and if so, she had soon after*
wards good reason to think her object gained; fori

154 SENSE AND SENSIBIUIT.

on Elinor's moying to the window to take more
expeditionsly the dimensions of a print which she
was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to
it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed
with her there for several minutes. The effect of
his discourse on the lady, too, could not escape her
observation; for though she was too honorable to
listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose
that she might not hear, to one close by the piano-
forte on which Marianne was playing, she could
not keep herself from seeing that Elinor changed
color, attended with agitation, and was too intent
on what he said to pursue her employment. Still
further in confirmation of her hopes, in the in-
terval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to
another, some words of the Colonel's inevitably
reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologiz-
ing for the badness of his house. This set the.
matter beyond a doubt. She wondered, indeed, at
his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it
to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in
reply she could not distinguish, but judged, from
the motion of her lips, that she did not think thai
any material objection; and Mrs. Jennings com-
mended her in her heart for being so honest.
They then talked on for a few minutes longer
without her catching a syllable, when another
lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her
these words in the Colonel's calm voice, —

SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT. 155

^' I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."

Afltonished and shocked at so unloverlike a
speech, she was almost ready to cry out, ^<Lord!
what should hinder it? " but checking her desire,
confined herself to this silent ejaculation, —

^^ This is very strange ! Sure, he need not wait
to be older.''

This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did
not seem to ofEend or mortify his. fair companion in
the least; for on their breaking up the conference
soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs.
Jennings very plainly heard Elinor say, and with
a voice which showed her to feel what she said, —

*^ I shall always think myself very much obliged
to you."

Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude,
and only wondered that after hearing such a sen-
tence, the Colonel should be able to take leave of
them, as he immediately did, with the utmost
sang-firndf and go away without making her any
reply I She had not thought her old friend could
have made so indifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to
this effect.

'^I have heard^" said he, with great compas-
sion, '' of the injustice your friend Mr. Ferrars has
suffered from his family; for if I understand the
matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them
for persevering in his engagement with a very

156 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

deserving yoang woman. Have I been rightly
informed? Is it so? *'

Elinor told him tliat it was.

''The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty/' he re-
plied with great feeling, ''of dividing, or at-
tempting to divide, two young people long attached
to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not
know what she may be doing, — what she may drive
her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three
times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with
him. He is not a young man with whom one can
be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I
have seen enough of him to wish him well for his
own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still
more. I understand that he intends to take orders.
"Will you be so good as to tell him that the living
of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by
this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his
acceptance, — but that, perhaps, so unfortunately
circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to
appear to doubt. I only wish it were more valua-
ble. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late in-
cumbent, I believe, did not make more than £200
per annum; and though it is certainly capable of
improvement, I fear not to such an amount as to
afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it
is, however, my pleasure in presenting him to it
will be very great. Pray assure him of it."

Elinor's astonishment at this commission could

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 157

hardly have been greater had the Colonel been
really making her an offer of his hand. The pre-
ferment, which only two days before she had
considered as hopeless for Edward, was already
provided to enable him to marry; and she, of all
people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it I
Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had at-
tributed to a very different cause; but whatever
minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have
a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general
benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular
friendship, which together prompted Colonel Bran-
don to this act, were strongly felt and warmly
expressed. She thanked him for it with all her
heart; spoke of Edward's principles and disposition
with that praise which she knew them to deserve;
and promised to undertake the commission with
pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so
agreeable an office to another. But at the same
time she could not help thinking that no one could
so well perform it as himself. It was an office, in
short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the
pain of receiving an obligation from hevy she would
have been very glad to be spared herself; but
Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy,
declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of
its being given through her means that she would
not on any account make further opposition.
Edward, she believed^ was still in towui and for-

158 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

tunately she had heard his address from
Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform
him of it, in the course of the day. After this
had heen settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of
his own advantage in securing so respectable and
agreeable a neiglibor; and then it was that he men-
tioned, with regret, that the house was small and
indifferent, — an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jen-
nings had supposed her to do, made very light o^
at least as far as regarded its size.

''The smallness of the house," said she, ''I
cannot imagine any inconvenience to them; for it
will be in proportion to their family and income.'*

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that
she was considering Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the
certain consequence of the presentation; for he did
not suppose it possible that Delaford living could
supply such an income as anybody in his style of
life would venture to settle on, and he said so.

''This little rectory can do no more than make
Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot
enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my
patronage ends with this; and my interest is
hardly more extensive. If, however, by an un-
foreseen chance it should be in my power to serve
him further, I must think very differently of him
from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be
useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be
at present. What I am now doing, indeed, seems

SENSE AND SENSIBILITr. 159

nuthing at all; since it can advance him so little
towards wliat must be his principal, his only object
of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant
good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place
very soon/'

Such was the sentence which, when misunder-
stood, so justly ofEended the delicate feelings of
Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what
really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor,
while they stood at the window, the gratilfude ex-
pressed by the latter on their parting may perhaps
appear, in general, not less reasonably excited nor
less properly worded than if it had arisen from an
offer of marriage.

CHAPTER Xni.

''WelL; Miss Dashwood/' said Mrs. Jennings^
sagaciously smiling^ as soon as the gentleman had
withdrawn^ ^^ I do not ask you what the Colonel
has been saying to you; for though, upon my
honor, I tried to keep out of hearing, I could not
help catching enough to understand his business;
and I assure you I never was better pleased in my
life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart."

'^ Thank you, ma'am,'* said Elinor. "Itwa
matter of great joy to me, and I feel the goodness
of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not
many men who would act as he has done; few
people who have so compassionate a heart I I never
was more astonished in my life."

''Lord I my dear, you are very modest. I a'n't
the least astonished at it in the world; for I have
often thought, of late, there was nothing more
likely to happen."

"You judged from your knowledge of the
Colonel's general benevolence; but at least you
could not foresee that the opportunity would so
very soon occur."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITr. 161

Ui

Opportunity ! ' ' repeated Mrs. Jennings. ' ' Oh,
M to thati when a man has once made up his mind
to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon
find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you
joy of ^t again and again; and if ever there was a
happy <90uple in the world, I think I shall soon
know where to look for them."

^' You mean to go to Delaford after them, I sup-
pose," said ElinpT, with a faint smile.

''Ay, my de^v, that I do, indeed; and as to the
house heing a had one, I do not know what the
Colonel would he at, for it is as good a one as ever
I saw."

'' He spoke of its heing out of repair."

"Well, and whose fault is that? Why don't
he repair it? Who should do it hut himself? "

They were interrupted by the servant's coming
in to announce the carriage being at the door;
and Mrs. Jennings^ immediately preparing to go,
said, —

'' Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have
had half my talk out. But, however, we may have
it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite
alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare
sfty your mind is too full of the matter to care for
company; and, besides, you must long to tell your
sister all about it."

Marianne had left the room before the conversa'
tion began.

#01^11.^11'

162 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

''Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it)
but I shall not mention it at present to anybody
else.''

''Oh, very well," said Mrs. Jennings, rather
disappointed. " Then you would not have me tell
it Lucy; for I think of going as far as Holbom
to-day."

" No, ma'am, not even Lucy, if you please. One
day's delay will not be very material ; and till I
have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not
to be mentioned to anybody else. I shall do t?uit
directly. It is of importance that no time should
be lost with him; for he will of course have much
to do relative to his ordination."

This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings ex-
ceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to be written
to about it in such a hurry, she could not im-
mediately comprehend. A few moments' reflec-
tion, however, produced a very happy idea, and
she exclaimed, —

"Oh, hoi I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to
be the man. Well, so much the better for him.
Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness ;
and I am very glad to find things are so forward
between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out
of character? Should not the Colonel write him-
self? Sure, he is the proper person."

Elinor did not quite understand the beginning
of Mrs. Jennings's speech, neither did she think it

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 163

worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied
to its conclusion.

'' Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man that he
rather wished any one to announce his intentions
to Mr. Ferrars than himself. '^

*' And so you are forced to do it. Well, th^t is
an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not dis-
turb you " (seeing her preparing to write). *^ You
know your own concerns best. So good-by, my
dear. I have not heard of anything to please me
so well since Charlotte was brought to bed.^'

And away she went; but returning again in a
moment, —

^^I have just been thinking of Betty's sister,
my dear. I should be very glad to get her so
good a mistress. But whether she would do for a
lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an
excellent housemaid, and works very well at her
needle. However, you will think of all that at
your leisure.'*

** Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hear-
ing much of what she said, and more anxious to
be alone than to be mistress of the subject.

How she should begin — how she should ex-
press herself in her note to Edward — was now
all her concern. The particular circumstances be-
tween them made a difficulty of that which to any
other person would have been the easiest thing in
the world; but she equally feared to say tcio much

164 SENSE AKD SENSIBILITT.

or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper,
with the pen in her hand, till broken iu on by the
entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door, in her
way to the carriage, « as he came to leare his fare-
well card; and she, after apologizing for not re-
turning herself, had obliged him to enter, by
saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted
to speak witli him on very particular business.

Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in
the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult
it might be to express herself properly by letter, it
was at least preferable to giving the information
by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to
force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her
astonishment and confusion were very ^eat on his
so sudden appearance. She had not seen him be-
fore since his engagement became public, and there-
fore not since his knowing her to be acquainted
with it; which, with the consciousness of what she
had been thinking of, and what she had to tell
him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for
some minutes. He, too, was much distressed; and
they sat down together in a most promising state
of embarrassment. Whether he had asked her par-
don for his intrusion on first coming into the room,
he could not recollect; but determining to be on
the safe side, he made his apology in form, as soon
as he could say anything, after taking a chair.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 165

"Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that yon
wished to apeak with me, — at least I understood her
so, — or I certainly should not have intruded on
you in such a manner; though, at the same time,
I should have heen extremely sorry to leave Lon-
don without seeing you and your sister; especially
as it will most likely be some time, — it is not
probable that I should soon have the pleasure of
meeting you again. I go to Oxford to-morrow.''

"You would not have gone, however," said
Elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get
over what she so much dreaded as soon as possi-
ble, ** without receiving our good wishes, even if
we had not been able to give them in person.
Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said.
I have something of consequence to inform you o^
which I was on the point of communicating by
paper. I am charged with a most agreeable office "
(breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke).
" Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes
ago, has desired me to say that, understanding you
mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in ofPer-
ii^g you the living of Delaford, now just vacant,
and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow
me to congratulate you on having so respectable
and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish
that the living — it is about two hundred a year —
were much more considerable, and such as might
better enable you to— ^as might be more than a

166 SENSE AND SENSIBILIIT.

temporary accommodation to yourself, — such^ in
short; as might establish all your yiews of
happiness.''

What Edward felt, as he could not say it him-
self , it cannot be expected that any one else should
say for him. He looked all the astonishment
which such unexpected, such unthought-of infor-
matiou could not fail of exciting; but he said only
these two words, —

" Colonel Brandon ! "

''Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more reso-
lution, as some of the worst was over; ''Colonel
Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for
what has lately passed, — for the cruel situation
ill which the unjustifiable conduct of your family
luL8 placed you, — a concern which I am sure Mari-
anne, myself, and all your friends must share; and
likewise as a proof of his high esteem of your
general character, and his particular approbation
of your behavior on the present occasion."

"Colonel Brandon give me a living I Can it
be possible?"

" The unkindness of your own relations has made
you astonished to find friendship anywhere."

"No," replied he, with sudden consciousness,
^' not to find it in you; for I cannot be ignorant
that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. I feel
it, — I would express it if I could^ — but, as you
well know, I am no orator."

SENSE AND SENSIBILirT. 167

^' You are very much mistaken. I do assure you
that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely,
to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discern-
ment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not
even know, till I understood his design, that the
living was vacant ; nor had it ever occurred to me
that he might have had such a living in his gift.
As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, per-
haps, indeed I know he hcLSy still greater pleasure
in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe noth-
ing to my solicitation. *'

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small
share in the action ; but she was at the same time
so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Ed-
ward that she acknowledged it with hesitation, —
which probably contributed to fix that suspicion
in his mind which had recently entered it. For a
short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had
ceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather
an effort, he said, —

'^ Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth
and respectability. I have always heard him spoken
of as such; and your brother, I know, esteems him
highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and
in his manners perfectly the gentleman."

"Indeed," replied Elinor, **I believe that you
will find him, on further acquaintance, all that you
have heard him to- be; and as you will be such
very near neighbors (for I understand the parson*

168 SENSE AKD SENSIBILnT.

age is almost close to the mansion-houBe) it is par-
ticularly important that he should be all this."

Edward made no answer; but when she had
turned away her head, gave her a look so seriousi
so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say that
he might hereafter wish the distance between the
parsonage and the mansion-house much greater.

'^ Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James's
Street, '^ said he, soon afterwards, rising from his
chair.

Elinor told him the number of the house.

''I must hurry away, then, to give him those
thanks which you will not allow me to give you ;
to assure him that he has made me a very — an
exceedingly happy man."

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they ^

parted, with a very earnest assurance on her side
of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in
every change of situation that might befall him;
on hi8y with rather an attempt to return the same
good will, than the power of expressing it.

''When I see him again," said Elinor to hei^
self, as the door shut him out, ''I shall see him
the husband of Lucy."

And with this pleasing anticipation she sat
down to reconsider the past, recall the words, and
endeavor to comprehend all the feelings of Ed-
ward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with
discontent.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 169

When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she
retnmed from seeing people whom she had never
seen before, and of whom, therefore, she must have
a great deal to say, her mind was so much more oc-
cupied by the important secret in her possession
than by anything else, that she reverted to it again
as soon as Elinor appeared.

"Well, my dear,'' she cried, "I sent you up
the young man. Did not I do right? And I sup-
pose you had no great difficulty, — you did not find
him very unwilling to accept your proposal? ''

"No, ma'am; t?uit was not very likely."

"Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it
seems all to depend upon that."

"Really," said Elinor, "I know so little ol
these kind of forms that I can hardly even conjee
ture as to the time or the preparation necessary;
but I suppose two or three months will complet6
his ordination."

"Two or three months! " cried Mrs. Jennings.
"Lord! my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and
can the Colonel wait two or three months? Lord
bless me ! I am sure it would put me quite out of
patience ! And though one would be very glad to
do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is
not worth while to wait two or three months for
him. Sure, somebody else might be found that
would do as well; somebody that is in orders
already."

170 SENSE AND SENSEBIUTY.

" My dear ma'am,'' said Elinor, " what can you
be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon's only
object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

'^Lord bless you, my dear! Sure, you do not
mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries
you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.
Ferrars! "

The deception could not continue after this; and
an explanation immediately took place, by which
both gained considerable amusement for the mo-
ment, without any material loss of happiness to
either; for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one
form of delight for another, and still without for-
feiting her expectation of the first.

'^Ay, ay, the parsonage is but a small one,"
said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and
satisfaction was over, *'and very likely may be out
of repair; but to hear a man apologizing, as I
thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five
sitting-rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the
housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!
and to you, too, that had been used to live in Bar-
ton Cottage! It seemed quite ridiculous. But,
my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some-
thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable
for them, before Lucy goes to it."

^^But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have
any idea of the living's being enough to allow
them to marry."

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 171

'^The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he
has two thousand a year himself, he thinks that
nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for
it, that if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at
Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am
sure I sha'n't go if Lucy a'n't there."

Elinor was quite of her opinion as to the proba-
bility of their not waiting for anything more.

CHAPTER XIV.

Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel
Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy;
and such was the excess of it by the time he
reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to
assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the
next day with her congratulations, that she had
never seen him in such spirits before in her life.
Her own happiness and her own spirits were
at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jen-
nings most heartily in her expectation of their
being all comfortably together in Delaford Par-
sonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the
same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor
that credit which Edward would give her, that she
spoke of her friendship for them both with the
most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their
obligation to her, and openly declared that no ex-
ertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part,
either present or future, would ever surprise her,
for she believed her capable of doing anything in
the world for those she really valued. As for
Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to wop

SBNSE AND SENSIBILITY. 173

ship him as a saint, but wa«, moreover; truly
aaxious that he should be treated as one in all
noiidly concerns; anxious that his tithes should
\m raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to
avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly
could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and
his poultry.

It was now above a week since John Dashwood
had called in Berkeley Street ; and as since that
time no notice had been taken by them of his
wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal inquiry,
Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.
This was an obligation, however, which not only
opposed her own inclination, but which had not
the assistance of any encouragement from her com-
panions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely
refusing to .go herself, was very urgent to pre-
vent her sister's going at all ; and Mrs. Jennings,
though her carriage was always at Elinor's service,
so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood that
not even her curiosity to see how she looked after
the late discovery, nor her strong desire to afEront
her by taking Edward's part, could overcome her
unwillingness to be in her company again. The
consequenee was that Elinor set out by herself to
pay a visit, for which no one could really have less
inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete
with a woman whom neither of the others had so
much reason to dislike.

174 BENSt AND SENSIBlLrnr.

Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the
riage could turn from the house, her husband acci-
dentally came out. He expressed great pleasure
in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just
going to call in Berkeley Street, and assuring her
that Fanny would be yery glad to see her, invited
her to come in.

They walked upstairs into the drawing-room.
Nobody was there.

'^ Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said
he. ^^ I will go to her presently, for I am sure she
will not have the least objection in the world to
seeing you. Very far from it, indeed. Now es-
pecially there cannot be — But, however, you
and Marianne were always great favorites. Why
would not Marianne come?''

Elinor made what excuse she could |or her.

^^I am not sorry to see you alone,'' he replied,
'^ for I have a good deal to say to you. This liv-
ing of Colonel Brandon's, — can it be true? Has
he really given it to Edward? I heard it yesterday
by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to
inquire further about it."

^'It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has
given the living of Delaford to Edward."

^< Eeally ! Well, this is very astonishing I — no
relationship! — no connection between theml —
and now that livings fetch such a price! — what
was the value of this? " 9

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 176

** Aboat two hundred a year.''

''Very well; and for the next presentation to
a living of that value, supposing the late incum-
bent to have been old and sickly, and likely to
vacate it soon, he might have got, I dare say —
fourteen hundred pounds. And how came he not
to have settled that matter before this person's
death? Now, indeed, it would be too late to sell
it; but a man of Colonel Brandon's sense ! — I won-
der he should be so improvident in a point of such
common, such natural concern! Well, I am con-
vinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in
almost every human character. I suppose, how-
ever, on recollection, that the case may prob-
ably be this. Edward is only to hold the living
till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold
the presentation is old enough to take it. Ay, ay,
that is the fact, depend upon it."

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively;
and by relating that she had herself been em-
ployed in conveying the offer from Colonel Bran-
don to Edward, and therefore must understand the
terms on which it was give% obliged him to sub-
mit to her authority.

'' It is truly astonishing! " he cried, after hear-
ing what she said; *' what could be the Colonel's
motive? "

*' A very simple one, — to be of use to Mr.
Verrars."

176 SENSE AND SENSEBILITr.

"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may
be, Edward is a very lucky man. You will not
mention the matter to Fanny, however; for though
I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,
she will not like to hear it much talked of."

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from
observing that she thought Fanny might have
borne with composure an acquisition of wealth
to her brother, by which neither she nor her child
could be possibly impoverished*

"Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice
to the tone becoming so important a subject,
" knows nothing about it at present; and I believe
it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from
her as long as may be. When the marriage takes
place, I fear she must hear of it all."

"But why should such precaution be used?
Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferrars .
can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that
her son has money enough to live upon, for that
must be quite out of the question; yet why, after
her late behavior, is she supposed to feel at all?
She has done with her son, — she has cast him off
forever, and has made all those over whom she had
any influence cast him off likewise. Surely, after
doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any im-
pression of sorrow or of joy on his account; she
cannot be interested in anything that befalls him.
She would not be so weak as to throw away the

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 177

comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a
parent!"

''Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is
very good; but it is founded on ignorance of human
nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes
place, depend upon it, his mother will feel as much
as if she had never discarded him; and therefore
every circumstance that may accelerate that dread-
ful event must be concealed from her as much as
possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Ed-
ward is her son."

''You surprise me; I should think it must
nearly have escaped her memory by this time."

"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is
one of the most affectionate mothers in the world."

Elinor was silent.

"We think wow," said Mr. Dashwood, after a
short pause, "of Robertas marrying Miss Morton."

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive im-
portance of her brother's tone, calmly replied, —

"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the
affair."

"Choice! how do you mean? "

" I only mean that I suppose, from your manner
of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton
whether she marry Edward or Robert."

" Certainly, there can be no difference; for Rob-
ert will now, to all intents and purposes, be con-
sidered as the eldest son ; and as to anything else,

VOL. II. — 12

178 SSNSB AHD SENSIBILirY.

they are both yeiy agpreeable young men: I do not
know that one is superior to the other.''

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a
short time silent. His reflections ended thus : —

^'Of one thing, my dear sister/' kindly taking
her hand and speaking in an awful whisper, ^'I
may assure you; and I wiU do it, because I know
it must gratify you. I have good reason to think
— indeed I have it from the best authority, or I
should not repeat it; for otherwise it would be yery
wrong to say anything about it, — but I have it
from the very best authority, — not that I ever
precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself, but
her daughter did^ and I have it from her, — that,
in short, whatever objections there might be i^inat
a certain — ^a certain connection, you understand
me, — it would have been far preferable to her, —
it would not have given her half the vexation that
this does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that
Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light; a very
gratifying circumstance, you know, to us all. ' It
would have been beyond comparison,' she said,
* the least evil of the two; and she would be glad
to compound nou> for nothing worse.' But, how-
ever, all that is quite out of the question, — not to
be thought of, or mentioned. As to any attach-
ment, you know, it never could be; all that is
gone by. But I thought I would just tell you ol
this, because I knew how much it must please you.

^

SENSE AND SENSIBILIT7. 179

Not that you hare any reason to regret, my dear
Elinor; there is no doubt of your doing exceed-
ingly well, — quite as well, or better, perhaps, all
things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been
with you lately?''

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her
vanity and raise' her self-importance, to agitate
her nerves and fill her mind; and she was there-
fore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying
much in reply herself, and from the danger of
hearing anything more from her brother, by the
entrance of Mr. Bobert Ferrars. After a few
moments' chat, John Dashwood^ recollecting that
Fanny was yet uninformed of his sister's being
there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor
was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert,
who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-com-
placency of his manner, while enjoying so unfair a
division of his mother's .love and liberality, to the
prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by
his own dissipated course of life and that brother's
integrity, was confirming her most unfavorable
opinion of his head and heart.

They had scarcely been two minutes by them-
selves before he began to speak of Edward; for he,
too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisi<>
tive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particu-
lars o^ it, as she had given them to John; and
their effect on Bobert, though very different, was

180 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

not less striking than it had been on Atm. He
laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's
being a clergyman and liying in a small parsonag^-
honse diverted him beyond measure; and when to
that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward
reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing
the banns of marriage between John Smith and
Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more
ridiculous.

Elinor, while she waited in silence and immov-
able gravity the conclusion of such folly, could not
restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a
look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It
was a look, however, very well bestowed; for it
relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence
to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not
by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.

<< We may treat it as a joke,'' said he, at last,
recovering from the affected laugh which had con-
siderably lengthened out the genuine gayety of the
moment; '^ but, upon my soul, it is a most serious
business. Poor Edward! he is ruined forever. I
am extremely sorry for it ; for I know him to be a
very good>hearted creature, — as well-meaning a
fellow, perhaps, as any in the world. You must
not judge of him. Miss DasKwood, from your
slight acquaintance. Poor Edward! His manners
are certainly not the happiest in nature, ^ut we
are not all bgrn, you know, with the same powers,

SENSE AND SENSIBILITr. 181

the same address. Poor fellow! to see him in a
circle of strangers! To be sure, it was pitiable
enough; but, upon my soul, I believe he has as
good a heart as any in the kingdom ; and I declare
and protest to you, I never was so shocked in my
life as when it all burst forth. I could not believe
it. My mother was the first person who told me
of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with
resolution, immediately said to her: ^My dear
madam, I do not know what you may intend to do
on the occasion; but as for myself, I must say
that if Edward does marry this young woman, 1
never will see him again. ' That was what I said
immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked,
indeed. Poor Edward! he has done for himself
completely, — shut hims^lf out forever from all
decent society! But, as I directly said to my
mother, I am not in the least surprised at it; from
his style of education, it was always to be ex-
pected. My poor mother was half frantic.''

"Have you ever seen the lady?"

'^Yes. Once, while she was staying in this
house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes ; and
I saw quite enough of her, — the merest awkward
country girl, without style or elegance, and al-
most without beauty. I remember her perfectly.
Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to
captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as
soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk
to him myself, and dissuade him from the match;

182 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

but it was too late then, I found, to do anything;
for, unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and
knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken
place, when it was not for me, you know, to inter-
fere. But had I been informed of it a few hours
earlier, I think it is most probable that something
might have been hit on. I certainly should have
represented it to Edw^krd in a very strong light.
'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider
what you are doing. You are making a most dis-
graceful connection, and such a one as your family
are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help
thinking, in short, that means might have been
found; but now it is all too late. He must be
starved, you know, that is certain; absolutely
starved."

He had just settled this point with great com-
posure, when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood
put an end to the subject. But though she never
spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see
its influence on her mind in the something like
confusion of countenance with which she entered,
and an attempt at cordiality in her behavior to
herself. She even proceeded so far as to be con-
cerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so
soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more
of them, — an exertion in which her husband, who
attended her into the room, and hung enamoured
over her accents, seemed to distinguish everything
that was most affectionate and graceful.

CHAPTER XV.

0ns other short call in Harley Street, in which
Elinor received her brother's congratulations on
their travelling so far towards Barton without any
expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow
them to Cleveland in a day or two, completed the
intercourse of the brother and sisters in town; and
a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland
whenever it should happen to be in their way,
which of all things was the most unlikely to occur,
with a more warm though less public assurance,
from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with
which he should come to see her at Delaford, was
all that foretold any meeting in the country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends
seemed determined to send her to Delaford, — a
place in which, of all others, she would now least
choose to visit, or wish to reside ; for not only was
it considered as her future home by her brother
and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they
parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her
there.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the
day, the two parties from Hanover Square and

184 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

Berkeley Street set out from their respective
homes, to meet by appointment on the road.
For the convenience of Charlotte and her child,
they were to be more than two days on their jour-
ney; and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expedi-
tiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join them
at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort
in London, and eager as she had long been to quit
it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu
to the house in which she had for the last time en-
joyed those hopes and that confidence in Wil-
loughby which were now extinguished forever,
without great pain; nor could she leave the place
in which Willoughby remained, busy in new en-
gagements and new schemes in which she could
have no share, without shedding many tears.

Elinor's satisfaction at the moment of removal
was more positive. She had no such object for her
lingering thoughts to fix on; she left no creature
behind, from whom it would give her a moment's
regret to be divided forever; she was pleased to be
free herself from the persecution of Lucy's friend-
ship; she was grateful for bringing her sister away
unseen by Willoughby since his marriage; and she
looked forward with hope to what a few months of
tranquillity at Barton might do towards restoring
Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her
own.

SENSE AKD SENSIBILrrY. 185

Their journey was safely performed. The second
day brought them into the cherished or the pro-
hibited county of Somerset, — for as such was it
dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination;
and in the forenoon of the third they drove up
to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house,
situated on a sloping lawn. It had no park, but
the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive ; and
like every other place of the same degree of im-
portance, it had its open shrubbery and closer
wood walk. A road of smooth gravel, winding
round a plantation, led to the front; the lawn was
dotted over with timber. The house itself was
under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-
ash, and the acacia; and a thick screen of them
altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy pop-
lars, shut out the offices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swell-
ing with emotion from the consciousness of being
only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from
Combe Magna; and before she had been five min-
utes within its walls, while the others were busily
helping Charlotte to show her child to the house-
keeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through
the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be
in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where,
from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering over
a wide tract of country to the southeast, could

186 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the
horizon, and fancy that from their summits Comhe
Magna might be seen.

In such moments of preciooS; invaluable misery,
she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland;
and as she returned by a different circuit to the
house, feeling all the happy privilege of country
liberty, of wandering from place to place in free
and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost
every hour of every day, while she remained with
the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary
rambles.

She returned just in time to join the others, as
they quitted the house, on an excursion through
its more immediate premises ; and the rest of the
morning was easily whiled away in lounging round
the kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its
walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations
upon blights, — in dawdling through the green-
house, where the loss of her favorite plants, un-
warily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost,
raised the laughter of Charlotte, — and in visiting
her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes
of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests,
or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decease of
a promising young brood, she found fresh sources
of merriment. •

The morning was fine and dry; and Marianne,
in her plan of employment abroad, had not calcu-

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 187

lated for any change of weather during their stay
at Cleveland. With great surprise, therefore, did
she find herself prevented, by a settled rain, from
going out again after dinner. She had depended
on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and per-
haps all over the grounds ; and an evening merely
cold or damp would not have deterred her from it,
but a heavy and settled rain even she could not
fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed
quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had her child, and
Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of
the friends they had left behind, arranged Lady
Middleton's engagements, and wondered whether
Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get far-
ther than Reading that night. Elinor, however
little concerned in it, joined in their discourse;
and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her
way in every house to the library, however it might
be avoided by the family in general, soon procured
herself a book.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that
constant and friendly good-humor could do to make
them feel themselves welcome. The openness and
heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that
want of recollection and elegance which made hei
often deficient in the forms of politeness ; her kind
ness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engag*
ing; her folly, though evident, was not disgpisting,

188 I^ENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have
forgiven every thing but her laugh.

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a
very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement
of the party, and a very welcome variety to their
conversation, which a long morning of the same
continued rain had reduced very low.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in
that little had seen so much variety in his address
to her sister and herself, that she knew not what
to expect to find him in his own family. She
found him, however, perfectly the gentleman in
his behavior to all his visitors, and only occasion-
ally rude to his wife and her mother; she found
him very capable of being a pleasant companion,
and only prevented from being so always, by too
great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior
to people in general as he must feel himself to be
to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of
his character and habits, they were marked, as far
as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all un-
usual in his sex and time of life. He was nice
in his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his
child, though affecting to slight it; and idled
away the mornings at billiards, which ought to
have been devoted to business. She liked him,
however, upon the whole, much better than she
had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that
she could like him no more; not sorry to be driven.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 189

hy the observation of his epicurism^ his selfish-
ness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency
on the remembrance of Edward^s generous temper,
simple taste, and diffident feelings.

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns,
she now received intelligence from Colonel Bran-
don, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and
who, treating her at once as the disinterested
friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of
himself, talked to her a great deal of the parson-
age at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told
her what he meant to do himself towards removing
them. His behavior to her in this as well as in
every other particular, his open pleasure in meet-
ing her after an absence of only ten days, his readi-
ness to converse with her, and his deference for
her opinion might very well justify Mrs. Jen-
nings's persuasion of his attachment, and would
have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still,
as from the first, believed Marianne his real favor-
ite, to make her suspect it herself. But as it was,
such a notion had scarcely ever entere<? her head,
except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she
could not help believing herself the nicest observer
of the two. She watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jen-
nings thought only of his behavior; and while his
looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling
in her head and throat the beginning of a h^avy
cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely es-

190 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTr.

caped the latter lady's observation, she could dis-
cover in them the quick feelings and needless alarm
of a lover.

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and
fourth evenings of her being there, not merely on
the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the
grounds, and especially in the most distant parts
of them, where there was something more of wild-
ness than in the rest, where the trees were the
oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,
had, assisted by the still greater imprudence of
sitting in her wet shoes and stockings, given
Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a day or
two trifled with or denied, would force itself by
in<»-easing ailments on the concern of everybody,
and the notice of herself. Prescriptions poured in
from all quarters, and, as usual, were all declined.
Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her
limbs, a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's
rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with
difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she
went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of
the remedies.

CHAPTER XVI.

Mabianne got up the next morning at her usual
time ; to every inquiry replied that she was better,
and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her
accustomary employments. But a day spent in
sitting shivering over the fire with a book in her
hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying,
weary and ls»iguid, on a sofa, did not speak much
in favor of her amendment ; and when at last she
went early to bed, more and more indisposed,
Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her
sister's composure, who, though attending and
nursing her the whole day, against Marianne's
inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her
at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty
and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however,
disappointed the expectation of both; and when
Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed
herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily
to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs.
Jennings's advice, of sending lor the Palmers'
apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though en-
couraging Miss Dashwood to expect that a veij

192 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

few days would restore her sister to healthy yet by

pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid ten-

dency^ and allowing the word ^^ infection " to pass

his lips^ gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer^ on

her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had

been inclined from the first to think Marianne's

complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked

very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming

Charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity

of her immediate removal with her infant; and

Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions

as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his

wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, there- i

fore, was fixed on; and within an hour after Mr. '

Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy

and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of

Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other

side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at

her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two,

and whither she was almost equally urgent with

her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings,

however, with a kindness of heart which made

Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of

not stirring from Cleveland as long as Marianne

remained ill, and of endeavoring, by her own

attentive care, to supply to her the place of the

mother she had taken her from ; and Elinor found

her on every occasion a most willing and active

helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 193

offcciiii by her better experience in nursings of
material use.

Poor Marianne^ languid and low from the na-
ture of her maladj; and feeling herself universally
ill, could no longer hope that to-morrow would
find her recovered; and the idea of what to-morrow
wotild have produced but for this unlucky illness
made every ailment more severe; for on that day
they were to have begun their journey home,
and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs.
Jennings, were to have taken their mother by sur-
prise on the following forenoon. The little that
she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable
delay; though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and
make her believe, as she tJteti really believed her-
self, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced littlie or no alteration in
the state of the patient; she certainly was not
better, and except that there was no amendment,
did not appear worse. Their party was now
further reduced; for Mr. Palmer, though very un-
willing to go, as well from real humanity and
good-nature as from a dislike of appearing to be
frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last
by Colonel Brandon to perform his promise of
following her; and while he was preparing to go.
Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater
exertion, began to talk of going likewise. Here,

however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed
VOL. n. — 18

194 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

most acceptably; for to send the Colonel away
while his love was in so much uneasiness on her
sister's account would be to deprive them both, she
thought, of every comfort; and therefore, telling
him at once that his stay at Cleveland was ne-
cessary to herself, that she should want him to
play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood
was above with her sister, etc., she urged him so
strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying
the first wish of his own heart by a compliance,
could not long even affect to demur; especially as
Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by
Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself
in leaving behind him a person so well able to
assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was of course kept in ignorance of all
these arrangements. She knew not that she had
been the means of sending the owners of Cleve-
land away in about seven days from the time of
their arrival. It gave her no surprise that she
saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her
likewise no concern, she never mentioned her
name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr.
Palmer's departure; and her situation continued,
with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a
speedy recovery; and Miss Dashwood was equally
sanguine ; but the expectation of the others was by no

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 195

means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined,
very early in the seizure, that Marianne would
never get over it; and Colonel Brandon, who was
chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's fore-
bodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their
influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears
which the di£Eerent judgment of the apothecary
seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of
each day in which he was left entirely alone were
but too favorable for the admission of every mel-
ancholy idea; and he could not expel from his
mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne
no more.

On the morning of the third day, however, the
gloomy anticipations of both were almost done
away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared
his patient materially better. Her pulse was
much stronger, and every symptom more favorable
than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in
every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing
that in her letters to her mother she had pursued
her own judgment rather than her friend's, in
making very light of the indisposition which
delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixing
on the time when Marianne would be able to
travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it
began. Towards the evening Marianne became ill
again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncom-

196 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

fortable than before. Her sister, howeyer, still
sanguine, was willing to attribute the change
to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat
up to have her bed made; and carefully adminis-
tering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satis-
faction, sink at last into a slumber from which
she expected the most beneficial efEects. Her sleep,
though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it,
lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe
the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her
during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing
nothing of any change in the patient, went un-
usually early to bed; her maid, who was one of
the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the
housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone
with Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more
disturbed; and her sister, who watched with unre-
mitting attention her continual change of posture,
and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of
complaint which passed her lips, was almost wish-
ing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when
Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental
noise in the house, started hastily up, and with
feverish wildness cried out, —

''Is mamma coming?''

"Not yet," replied the other, concealing her
terror, and assisting Marianne to lie down again*,
''but she will be here, I hope, before it is long.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 197

Itf is a great way, jou know^ from hence to
Barton. '^

*'But she must not go round by London," cried
Marianne, in the same hurried manner. ^^ I shall
never see her, if she goes by London."

Elinor perceived, with alarm, that she was not
quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her,
eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker
than ever; and, Marianne still talking wildly of
mamma, her alarm increased so rapidly as to de-
termine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris,
and despatching a messenger to Barton for her
mother. To consult with Colonel Brandon on the
best means of effecting the latter was a thought
which immediately followed the resolution of its
performance ; and as soon as she had rung up the
maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened
down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was
generally to be found at a much later hour than
the present.

It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and
her difficulties were immediately before him. Her
fears he had no courage, no confidence, to attempt
the removal of; he listened to them in silent de-
spondence: but her difficulties were instantly ob-
viated; for, with a readiness that seemed to speak
the occasion and the service prearranged in his
mind, he offered himself as the messenger who
should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no

198 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

resistance that was not easily oveioome. Eh#
thanked him with brief though fervent gratitude;
and while he went to hurry off his servant with
a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-
horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her
mother.

The comfort of such a &iend at that moment as
Colonel Brandon, of such a companion for her
mother, how gratefully was it felt! — a companion
whose judgment would gpiide, whose attendance
must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe
her! As far as the shock of such a summons could
be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his
assistance would lessen it.

He meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted
with all the firmness of a collected mind, made
every necessary arrangement with the utmost de-
spatch, and calculated with exactness the time in
which she might look for his return. Not a mo-
ment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses
arrived even before they were expected; and
Colonel Brandon, only pressing her hand with a
look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low
to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was
then about twelve o'clock ; and she returned to her
sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the
apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to
both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless

SENSE AND SENStBILITY. 199

pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the
most cruel anxiety on Elinor's^ before Mr. Harris
appeared. Her apprehensions once raised paid by
their excess for all her former security; and the
servant who sat up with her, for she would not
allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured
her more, by hints of what her mistress had al-
ways thought.

Marianne's ideas were still at intervals fixed
incoherently on her mother; and whenever she
mentioned her name it gave a pang to the heart
of poor>Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having
trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched
for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief
might soon be in vain, that everything had been
delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suf-
fering mother arriving too late to see this darling
child, or to see her rational.

She was on .the point of sending again for Mr.
Harris, or if he could not come, for some other
advice, when the former — but not till after five
o'clock — arrived. His opinion, however, made
some little amends for his delay; for though ac-
knowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant
alteration in his patient, he would not allow the
danger to be material, and talked of the relief
which a fresh mode of treatment must procure,
with a confidence which in a lesser degree was
communicated to Elinor. He promised to call

200 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

again in the course of three or four hours, and
left both the patient and her anxious attendant
more composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches
for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jen-
nings hear in the morning of what had passed.
Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason
restored, left her no doubt of the event; and
though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
conviction of her sister's danger would not allow
her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was
really grieved. The rapid decay, the eais^ death
of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must
have struck a less interested person with concern.
On Mrs. Jennings's compassion she had other
claims. She had been for three months her com-
panion, was still under her care, and she was
known to have been greatly injured and long un-
happy. The distress of her sister, too, particu-
larly a favorite, was before her; and as for their
mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Ma-
rianne might probably be to her what Charlotte
was to herself, her sympathy in her sufferings was
very sincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;
but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of
what the last would produce. His medicines had
failed, — the fever was unabated; and Marianne
only more quiet^ not more herself, remained in a

SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT. 201

heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all and more than
all his fear in a moment, proposed to call in
farther advice. But he judged it unnecessary; he
had still something more to try, some fresh appli-
cation, of whose success he was almost as confident
as the last; and his visit concluded with encourag-
ing assurances which reached the ear hut could not
enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm,
except when she thought of her mother; but she
was almost hopeless; and in this state she con*
tinned till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's
bed^ ktr thoughts wandering from one image of
grief, one suffering friend to another, and her
spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation
of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute
the severity and danger of this attack to the many
weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's
disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all
the reasonableness of the idea^ and it gave fresh
misery to her reflections.

About noon, however, she began — but with a
caution, a dread of disappointment, which for
some time kept her silent even to her friend — to
fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amend-
ment in her sister's pulse: she waited, watched,
and examined it again and again; and at last,
with an agitation more difficult to bury under ex-
terior calmness than all her foregoing distress,
ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jen*

202 SENSB AKD SSNSIBILITr.

nings, though forced, on examination^ to acknowl-
edge a temporary reyival, tried to keep her young
friend from indulging a thought of its continu-
ance; and Elinor, conning oyer every injunction
of difltrusty told herself likewise not to hope. But
it was too late. Hope had already entered; and
feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her
sister to watch — she hardly knew for what. Half
an hour passed away, and the favorable symptom
/et blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it.
Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered Elinor
with signs of amendment; and Marianne ftied her
eyes on her with a rational though languid gaze.
Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal de-
grees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till
the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock; when his
assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in her
sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her
confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better,
and he declared her entirely out of danger. Mrs.
Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justi-
fication of her forebodings which had been found
in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his
judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy and
soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability
of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of ^
different kind; and led to anything rather than

SENSE AND SENSIBILnT. 203

to gayety. Marianne^ restored to life, health,
friendfly and to her doting mother, was an idea to
fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort,
and expand it in fervent gratitude ; but it led to
no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no
smiles. AH within Elinor's breast was satisfac-
tion, silent and strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with
little intermission, the whole afternoon; calming
every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled
spirits, supplying every succor, and watching al-
most every look and every breath. The possibility
of a relapse would^ of course, in some moments
occur to remind her of what anxiety was ; but when
she saw, on her frequent and minute examination,
that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw
Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady,
and to all appearance comfortable sleep, she si-
lenced every doubt.

The time was now drawing on when Colonel
Brandon might be expected back. At ten o'clock,
she trusted, or at least not much later, her mother
would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in
which she must now be travelling towards them.
The Colonel, tool — perhaps scarcely less an object
of pity! Oh, how slow was the progress of time
which yet kept them in ignorance!

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly
asleep^ she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-

204 SENSE AKB SEKSIBILITT.

room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by
her fears, and oi dinner by their sudden reverse,
from eating much; and the present refreshment
therefore, with such feelings of content as she
brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs.
Jennings would have persuaded her, at its conclu-
sion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival,
and allow her to take her place by Marianne; but
Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of
sleep at that moment about her, and she was not
to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary
instant. Mrs. Jennings, therefore, attending her
upstairs into the sick-chamber, to satisfy herself
that all continued right, left her there again to
her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her
own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy. The wind
roared round the house, and the rain beat against
the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
regarded it not. Marianne slept through every
blast; and the travellers, — they had a rich reward
in store, for every present inconvenience.

The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor
would have been convinced that at that moment
she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and
so strong was the persuasion that she didy in spite
of the almost impossibility of their being already
come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing
closet and opened a window-shutter, to be satisfied

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 205

•

of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had
not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage
were immediately in view. By their uncertain
light she thought she could discern it to he drawn
hy four horses ; and this, while it told the excess
of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation
fco such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult
to he calm as at that moment. The knowledge of
what her mother must he feeling as the carriage
stopped at the door, — of her doubt, her dread,
perhaps her despair, — and of what she had to
tell I — with such knowledge it was impossible to
be calm. All that remained to be done was to be
speedy; and therefore, staying only till she could
leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sisteri she
hurried downstairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along
an inner lobby, assured her that they were already
in the house. She rushed forwards towards the
drawing-room; she entered it — and saw only
Willoughby.

CHAPTER XVn.

Elinob, starting back with a look of horror at the
sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart
in turning instantly to quit the room; and her
hand was already on the lock, when its action was
suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying,
in a voice rather of command than supplication, —

^^Miss Dashwood, for half an hour — for ten
minutes — I entreat you to stay."

^'Ko, sir,'' she replied with firmness, ^'I shall
not stay. Your business cannot be with me. The
servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr.
Palmer was not in the house.''

''Had they told me," he cried with vehemence,
^'that Mr. Palmer and all his relations were at the
devil, it would not have turned me from the door.
My business is with you, and only you."

''With me!" in the utmost amazement.
"Well, sir, be quick, — and if you can, less
violent."

"Sit down, and I will be both."

She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The
possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and find-
ing him there came across her. But she had
promised to hear him; and her curiosity no less

SENSE AND SBNSIBILITY. 207

than her honor was engaged. After a moment's
recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence
required despatch, and that her acquiescence would
best promote it, she walked silently towards the
table, and sat down. He took the opposite chair;
and for half a minute not a word was said by
either.

*'Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor, impatiently;
"I have no time to spare."

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation,
and seemed not to hear her.

'^Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a mo-
ment afterwards, '^is out of danger. I heard it
from the servant. God be praised! But is it
true, is it really true?"

Elinor would not speak. He repeated the
inquiry with yet greater eagerness.

'^ For God's sake, tell me is she out of danger, or
is she not? "

"We hope she is."

He rose up and walked across the room.

" Had r known as much half an hour ago, —
but since I am here," speaking with a forced viva-
city as he returned to his seat, "what does it
signify? For once. Miss Dashwood, — it will be
the last time, perhaps, — let us be cheerful together.
I am in a fine mood for ^yety. Tell me honestly, "
a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you
think me most a knave or a fool?"

208 SENSE Am) SENSIBILITT.

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment
than ever. She began to think that he must be
in liquor; the strangeness of such a visit and of
such manners seemed no otherwise intelligible;
and with this impression she immediately rose,
saying, —

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to
return to Combe. I am not at leisure to remain
with you longer. Whatever your business may be
with me, it will be better recollected and explained
to-morrow.*'

"I understand you/' he replied, with an ex-
pressive smile and a voice perfectly calm; "yes,
I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold
beef at Marlborough was enough to overset me."

"At Marlborough!" cried i^linor, more and
more at a loss to understand what he would
be at.

"Yes; I left London this morning at eight
o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent
out of my chaise since that time procured me a
nunchion at Marlborough."

The steadiness of his manner and 'the intelli-
gence of 'his eye as he spoke convincing Elinor
that whatever other unpardonable folly might
bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there
by intoxication, she said, after a moment's
recollection, — '-

"Mr. Willoughby, you aught to feel, and I

SENSE AND SENSIBILnT. 209

certainly doy that after what has passed^ yonz
coming here in this manner and forcing yourself
upon my notice requires a very particular excuse.
What is it that you mean by it? "

"I mean," said he, with serious energy, ^Mf I
can, to make you hate me one degree less than you
do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation,
gone kind of apology, for the past; to open my
whole heart to you, and by convincing you that
though I have been always a blockhead I have
not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma — from your sister/'

'^ Is this the real reason of your coming? "

"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a
warmth which brought all the former Willoughby
to her remembrance, and, in spite of herself, made
her think him sincere.

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already;
for Marianne does, she has long forgiven you."

"Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone.
" Then she has forgiven me before she ought to
have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and
on more reasonable grounds. Now will you listen
to me? "

Elinor bowed her assent.

" I do not know," said he, after a pause of ex-
pectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his
own, "how you may have accounted for my be-
havior to your sister, or what diabolical motive
roL. II. — 14

210 8SK8E AND SEN8IBIIJTT.

yoa may have imputed to me. Perhaps yoa will
hardly think the better of me, — it is worth the
trial, however, — and you shall hear everything.
When I first became intimate in your family, I
had no other intention, no other view in the ac-
quaintance, than to pass my time pleasantly while
I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more
pleasantly than I had ever done' before. Tour
sister's lovely person and interesting manners
could not but please me; and her behavior to me
almost from the first was of a kind — it is aston-
ishing, when I reflect on what it was and what
she was, that my heart should have been so insen-
sible! But at first, I must confess, my vanity
only was elevated by it. Careless of her happi-
ness, thinking only of my own amusement, giv-
ing way to feelings which I had always been too
much in the habit of indulging, I endeavored, by
every means in my power, to make myself pleas-
ing to her, without any design of returning her
affection.'*

Miss Dashwood at this point, turning her eyes
on him with the most angry contempt, stopped
him by saying, —

'* It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby,
for yoa to relate, or for me to listen any longer.
Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
anything. Do not let me be pained by hearing
anything more on the subject.''

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 211

^I insist on your hearing the whole of it/' he
replied. ^' My fortune was never large, and I had
always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than my-
self. Every year since my coming of age, or even
before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith,
was to set me* free, yet that event being uncertain,
and possibly far distant, it had been for some time
my intention to re-establish my circumstances by
marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself
to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be
thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look
even of yours. Miss Dashwood^ can ever reprobate
too much, I was acting in this manner, trying to
engage her regard, without a thought of returning
it. But one thing may be said for me : even in
that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know
the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did
not then know what it was to love. But have I
ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for had
I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings
to vanity, to avarice, — or, what is more, could I
have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To
avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection
and her society would have deprived of all its
horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost
everything that could make it a blessing.''

212 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

''You did, then,'' said Elinor, a little softenedi
'' believe yourself at one time attached to her? "
' '' To have resisted such attractions, to have with-
stood such tenderness I Is there a man on earth
who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by
insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the
happiest hours of my life were what I spent with
her when I felt my intentions were strictly hon-
orable, and my feelings blameless. Even then,
however, wheli fully determined on paying my
addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly
to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing
it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engage-
ment while my circumstances were so greatly em-
barrassed. I will not reason here — nor will I stop
for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse
than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith
where my honor was already bound. The event has
proved that I was a cunning fool, providing with
great circumspection for a possible opportunity of
making myself contemptible and wretched forever^
At last, however, my resolution was taken; and I
had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone,
to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid
her, and openly assure her of an affection which I
had already taken such pains to display. But in
the interim -^ in the interim of the very few hours
that were to pass before I could have an opportu-
nity of speaking with her in private <— a ciieam*

SENSE AKD SENSIBILITT. 213

stance occurred — an unlucky circumstance — to
ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.
A discovery took place — " Here lie hesitated
and looked down. ^' Mrs. Smith had somehow or
other been informed — I imagine by some distant
relation, whose interest it was to deprive. me of her
favor — of an aftair, a connection — But I need
not explain myself further/' he added, looking at
her with a heightened color and an inquiring eye;
" your particular intimacy — you have probably
heard the whole story long ago.''

^^I have," returned Elinor, coloring likewise,
and hardening her heart anew against any com-
passion for him, — ^^I have heard it all; and how
you will explain away any part of your guilt in
that dreadful business I confess is beyond my
comprehension. "

"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom
you received the account. Could it be an impar-
tial one ? I acknowledge that her situation and
her character ought to have been respected by me.
I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same
time cannot leave you to suppose that I have noth-
ing to urge, — that because she was injured she was
irreproachable, and because /was a libertine she
must be a saint. If the violence of her passions,
the weakness of her understanding — I do not
mean, however, to defend myself. Her afiEection
for me deserved better treatment; and I often with

214 SENSE A2^ SENSIBILITT.

great self-reproach recall the tenderness which fox
a yery short time had the power of creating any
return. I wish — I heartily wish it had never
been. But I haye injured more than herself; and
I haye injured one whose affection for me (may
I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and
whose mind — oh, how infinitely superior! "

^^Tour indifference, however, towards that un-
fortunate girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me
as the discussion of such a subject may well be —
your indifference is no apology for your cruel neg-
lect of her. Do not think yourself excused by
any weakness, any natural defect of understanding
on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on
yours. Tou must have known that while you
were enjoying yourself in Devonshire, pursuing
fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was
reduced to the extremest indigence."

''But upon my soul, I did not know it," he
warmly replied. '' I did not recollect that I had
omitted to give her my direction; and common-
sense might have told her how to find it out."

" Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith? "

'' She taxed me with the offence at once, and my
confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life,
the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the
world, — everything was against me. The matter
itself I could not deny, and vain was every eu'
deavor to soften it. She was previously disposed.

SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT. 215

I belieye. to doubt the morality of my conduct in
general^ and was, moreover^ discontented with the
very little attention, the very little portion of my
time that I had bestowed on her in my present
visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By
one measure I might have saved myself. In the
height of her morality, good woman ! she offered to
forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That
could not be; and I was formally dismissed from
her favor and her house. The night following this
affair — I was to go the next morning — was spent
by me in deliberating on what my future conduct
should be. The struggle was great, but it ended
too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough
conviction of her attachment to me, — it was all
insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or
get the better of those false ideas of the necessity
of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel,
and expensive society had increased. I had reason
to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I
chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to
think that nothing else in common prudence re-
mained for me to do. A heavy scene, however,
awaited me before I could leave Devonshire : I was
engggei to dine with you on that very day; some
apology was therefore necessary for my breaking
the engagement. But whether I should write this
apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long
debate. To see Marianne I felt would be dread'

i

216 SENSE AND SEKSIBILITT.

fal ; and I even doubted whether I could see hei
again and keep to my resolution. In that point,
however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as
the event declared; for I went, i saw her, and saw
her miserable, and left her miserable, — and left
her hoping n^ver to see her again."

"Why did you call, Mr, Willoughby?" said
Elinor, reproachfully; '^ a note would have an-
swered every purpose. Why was it necessary to
call?"

^'It was necessary to my own pride. I could
not bear to leave the country in a manner that
might lead you or the rest of the neighborhood
to suspect any part of what had really passed be-
tween Mrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved
therefore on calling at the cottage in my way to
Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,
was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter,
I found her alone. You were all gone, I do not
know where. I had left her only the evening be-
fore, so fully, so firmly resolved within myself
on doing right! A few hours were to have en-
gaged her to nie foreyer; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from
the cottage to AUenham, satisfied with myself, de-
lighted with everybody I But in this, our last in-
terview of friendship, I approached her with a sense
of guilt that almost took from me the power of dis-
sembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 217

deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged to
leave Devonshire so immediately, — - 1 never shall
forget it, — united too with such reliance, such
confidence in me! Oh, God! what a hard-hearted
rascal I was ! ''

They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor
first spoke.

" Did you tell her that you should soon return? '*
^'I do not know what I told her," he replied
impatiently; 'Mess than was due to the past, be-
yond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more
than w&s justified by the future. I cannot think
of it ; it won't do. Then came your dear mother
to torture me further, with all her kindness and
confidence. Thank Heaven! it did torture me.
I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot
have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look
back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to
myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own
heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only
triumph and exultation to me 'now. Well, I went,
left all that I loved, and went to those to whom
at best I was only indifferent. My journey to
town, — travelling with my own horses, and there-
fore so tediously, — no creature to speak to, — my
own reflections so cheerful, — when I looked for-
ward, everything so inviting! when I looked
back at Barton, the picture so soothing! — oh, it
was a blessed journey! ''

218 SENSE Ain> SSKSIBILnT.

He stopped.

"Well, air/' said Elinor, who, though pitying
him, grew impatient for his departure, "and this
is all?''

"All! no. Have you forgot what passed in
town? That infamous letter? Did she show it
you?"

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

"When the first of hers reached me (as it im-
mediately did, for I was in town the whole time),
what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to he
expressed; in a more simple one, perhaps too
simple to raise any emotion, my feelings were
very, very painful. Every line, every word, waS
— in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear
writer, were she here, would forbid — a dagger to
my heart. To know that Marianne was in town
was, in the same language, a thunderbolt. Thun-
derbolts and daggers! what a reproof would she
have given me I Her taste, her opinions, — I be-
lieve they are better known to me than my own,
and I am sure they are dearer."

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many
changes in the course of this extraordinary con-
versation, was now softened again; yet she felt it^
her duty to check such ideas in her companion
as the last.

" This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remem-
ber that you are married. Belate only what in

SENSE AND SEKSIBILrrT. 219

your conscience you think necessary for me to
hear."

<< Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was
still as dear to her as in former days, — that in
spite of the many, many weeks we had been sepa-
rated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and
as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, —
awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, be-
cause time and London, business and dissipation,
had in some measure quieted it, and I had been
growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself
indi^erent to her, and choosing to fancy that she
too must have become indifEerent to me; talking
to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle,
trifling business; shrugging up my shoulders in
proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,
overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now
and then, ^ I shall be heartily glad to hear she is
well married.' But this note made me know my-
self better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to
me than any other woman in the world, and that I
was using her infamously. But everything was
then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To
retreat was impossible. All that I had to do was
to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Marianne,
intending by that means to preserve myself from
her further notice; and for some time I was even
determined not to call in Berkeley Street; but at
last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool|

220 SENSE AND SENSmiLITY.

common acquaintance than anything else^ I watched
you all safely out of the house one morning, and
left my name."

" Watched us out of the house! "

" Even so. You would he surprised to hear how
often I watched you, how often I was on the point
of falling in with you. I have entered many a
shop to avoid your sight as the carriage drove hy.
Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly
a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or
other of you; and nothing hut the most constant
watchfulness on my side, a most invariahly pre-
vailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have
separated us so long.\ I avoided the Middletons as
much as possible, as well as everybody else who
was likely to prove an acquaintance in common.
Not aware of their being in town, however, I blun-
dered on Sir ^John, I believe, the first day of his
coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs.
Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a dance at
his house in the evening. BLad he not told me as
an inducement that you and your sister were to be
there, I should have felt it too certain a thing to
trust myself near him. The next morning brought
another short note from Marianne, — still affec-
tionate, open, artless, confiding, — everything that
could make mp conduct most hateful. I could
not answer it. I tried, but could not frame a
f entence. But I thought of her, I believe, every

Airo SENSIBILITY. 221

moment d th€» dagr. If you can pity me, Miss
Dashwoody pity my situation as it was then. With
my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced
to play the hif^y lover to another woman. Those
three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at
last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me;
and what a sweet figure I cut, what an evening of
agony it was ! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on
one side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone!
oh, God! — holding out her hand to me, asking me
for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes
fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face ; and
Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand,
looking all that was — Well, it does not signify;
it is over now. Such an evening! I ran away
from you all as soon as I could; but not before I
had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death.
2%at was the last, last look I ever had of her; the
last manner in which she appeared to me. It was
a horrid sight ! Yet when I thought of her to-day
as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to
imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear
to those who saw her last in this world. She was
before me, constantly before me as I travelled, in
the same look and hue.''

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness suc-
ceeded. Willoughby, first rousing himself, broke
it thus: —

''Well; let me make haste and be gone.

222 SENSE AND SENSIBZmT.

Your sister is certainly better^ eertainlj out of
danger?''

" We are assured of it."

'^ Tour poor mother, too! doting on Marianne.

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own
letter, — have you anything to say about that? "

"Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister
wrote to me again, you know, the very next morn-
ing. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting
at the Ellisons' ; and her letter, with some others,
was brought to me there from my lodgings. It
happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught
mine; and its size, the elegance of the paper,
the handwriting altogether, immediately gave her
a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her
before of my attachment to some young lady in
Devonshire ; and what had passed within her ob-
servation the preceding evening had marked who
the young lady was, and made her more jealous
than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness,
therefore, which is delightful in a woman one
loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its
contents. She was well paid for her impudence.
She read what made her wretched. Her wretched-
ness I could have borne; but her passion, her
malice, — at all events it must be appeased. And,
in short, what do you think of my wife's style of
letter-writing? — delicate, tender, truly feminine,
was it not?"

SENSE AND SENSmiLITT. 223

" Tour wife ! The letter was in your own hand-
writing."

'^Tes; but I had only the credit of servilely
copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put
my name to. The original was all her own, — her
own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what
could I do? We were engaged^ everything in
preparation, the day almost fixed — But I am
talking like a fool. Preparation! Day I In honest
words, her money was necessary to me, and in a
situation like mine anything was to be done to
prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it
signify to my character, in the opinion of Marianne
and her friends, in what language my answer was
couched? It must have been only to one end.
My business was to declare myself a scoundrel;
and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was
of little importance. ^I am ruined forever in
their opinion, ' said I to myself. ' I am shut out
forever from their society; they already think me
an unprincipled fellow; this letter will only make
them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my
reasonings as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I
copied my wife's words, and parted with the last
relics of Marianne. Her three notes, — unluckily
they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have
denied their existence, and hoarded them forever,
— I was forced to put them up, and could not even
kiss them. And the lock of hair, — that, too^ I

224 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTr.

had always carried about me in the same pocket-
booky which was now searched by madam with the
most ingratiating vimlence, — the dear lock, — all,
every memento was torn from me.''

"You are very wrong, Mr, Willoughby, very
blamable," said Elinor; while her voice, in spite
of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
'^you ought not to speak in this way, either of
Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. Tou have made
your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your
wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect,
at least. She must be attached to you, or she
would not have married you. To treat her with
unkindness, to speak of her slightingly, is no
atonement to Marianne; nor can I suppose it a
relief to your own conscience."

" Do not talk to me of my wife, " said he, with
a heavy sigh; ''she does not deserve your compas-
sion. She knew I had no regard for her when we
married. Well, married we were, and came down
to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterwards
returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity
me. Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no
purpose? Am I, — be it only one degree, — am I
less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My
intentions were not always wrong. Have I ex-
plained away any part of my guilt?"

''Yes, you have certainly removed something, —
a little. You have proved yourself, on the whole^

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 225

less faulty than I had believed you. You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.
But I hardly know — the misery that you have
inflicted — I hardly know what could have made it
worse,"

''Will you repeat to your sister, when she is
recovered, what I have been telling you? Let me
be a little lightened, too, in her opinion as well as
in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me
already. Let me be able to fancy that a better
knowledge of my heart and of my present feel-
ings will draw from her a more spontaneous, more
natural, more gentle, less dignified forgiveness.
Tell her of my misery and my penitence; tell
her that my heart was never inconstant to her;
and, if you will, that at this moment she is dearer
to me than ever,"

''I will tell her all that is necessary to what
may comparatively be called your justification;'
but you have not explained to me the particular
reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of
her illness."

'' Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against
Sir John Middleton ; and when he saw who I was,
for the first time these two months, he spoke to
me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage,
I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now,
however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul,
full of indignation against me, and concern for

VOL. II. — 15

226 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

your sister, could not resist the temptation of tell-
ing me what he knew ought tO; though probably
he did not think it wovldy vex me horridly. As
bluntly as he could speak it, therefore^ he told me
that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid
fever at Cleveland, — a letter that morning received
from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most
imminent, — the Palmers all gone off in a fright,
etc. I was too much shocked to be able to pass
myself off as insensible even to the undisceming
Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine
suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away,
that when we parted he almost shook me by the
hand, while he reminded me of an old promise
about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing
that your sister was dying, and dying, too, believ-
ing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning,
hating me in her latest moments, — for how could
I tell what horrid projects might not have been
imputed? One person I was sure would represent
me as capable of anything. What I felt was
dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at
eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage.
Now you know all.''

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were
silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too
early an independence, and its consequent habits
of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in
the mind, the character, the happiness of a man

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 227

who, to every advantage of person and talents,
united a disposition naturally open and honest,
and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had
made him extravagant and vain; extravagance
and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at
the expense of another, had involved him in a real
attachment which extravagance, or at least its off-
spring, necessity, had required to he sacrificed.
Each faulty propensity, in leading him to evil, had
led him likewise to punishment. The attachment,
from which against honor, against feeling, against
every hetter interest he had outwardly torn himself,
now, when no longer allowahle, governed every
thought ; and the connection for the sake of which
he had with little scruple left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to him-
self of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie
of this kind she was recalled at the end of some
minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself
from a reverie at least equally painful, started up
in preparation for going, and said, —

" There is no use in staying here; I must be off."

*^Are you going back to town?"

"No ; to Combe Magna. I have business
there; from thence to town in a day or two.
Good-by."

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to
give him hers; he pressed it with affection.

228 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

''And you do think something better of me than
you did?" said he, letting it fall, and leaning
against the mantelpiece, as if forgetting he was
to go.

Elinor assured him that she did, — that she
forgave, pitied, wished him well, was even in-
terested in his happiness, — and added some gentle
counsel as to the behavior most likely to promote
it. His answer was not very encouraging.

"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the
world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out
of the question. If, however, I am allowed to
think that you and yours feel an interest in my
fate and actions, it may be the means — It may
put me on my guard — ^at least it will be some-
thing to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to
me forever. Were I even by any blessed chance
at liberty again - "

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

"Well," he replied, "once more good-by. I
shall now go away and live in dread of one
event."

"What do you mean? "

"Your sister's marriage."

"You are very wrong. She can never be more
lost to you than she is now."

"But she will be gained by some one else;
and if that some one should be the very he whom
of all others T could least bear — But I will uot

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 229

stay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-
will, by showing that where I have most injured I
can least forgive. Good-by, — God bless you! '*

And with these words he almost ran out of the
rooBU

CHAPTEB XVm.

Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some
time even after the sound of his carriage had died
away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of
ideasi widely differing in themselves, but of which
sadness was the general result, to think even of
her sister.

Willoughby, — he whom only half an hour ago
she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, —
Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced
by them, which made her think of him as now sep-
arated forever from her family, with a tenderness,
a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowl-
edged within herself, to his wishes than to his
merits. She felt that his influence over her mind
was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight, — by that person of un-
common attraction, that open, affectionate, and
lively manner, which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne which
it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt
that it was so, long, long before she could feel hia
influence less.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 231

When at last she returned to the unconscious
Marianne^ she found her just awaking, refreshed
hj so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her
hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the
present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's
safety, and her mother's expected arrival threw
her altogether into an agitation of spirits which
kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her
only fearful of betraying herself to her sister.
Short was the time, however, in which that fear
could affect her; for within half an hour after
Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again
called downstairs by the sound of another carriage.
Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary
moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately
into the h%ll, and reached the outward door just in
time to receive and support her as she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near
the house had produced almost the conviction of
Marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire
after her, no voice even for Elinor; but she, wait-
ing neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly
gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it
with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as
much overcome by her happiness as she had been
before by her fears. She was supported into the
drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;
and there, shedding tears of joy, though still un-
able to speak, embraced Elinor again and again.

232 8£KS£ AND SENSIBILmr.

tumiDg from her at intervals to press Colonel
Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once
her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing
with herself in the bliss of the moment. He
shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
her own.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself,
to see Marianne was her first desire; and in two
minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered
dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness,
and danger. Elinor's delight, as she saw what
each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an
apprehension of its robbing Marianne of further
sleep; but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be
even prudent, when the life of a child was at
stake; and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her
mother was near her, and conscious of being too
weak for conversation, submitted readily to the
silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around
her. Mrs. Dashwood would sit up with her all
night; and Elinor, in compliance with her
mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest,
which one night entirely sleepless and many hours
of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requi-
site, was kept off by irritation of spirits. "Wil-
loughby — " poor Willoughby, ' ' as she now allowed
herself to call him — was constantly in her thoughts;
she would not but have heard his vindication for
the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself

SENSE AND SENSIBILriT. 233

for having judged him so harshly before. But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably
painful. She dreaded the performance of it ; dreaded
what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted
whether, after such an explanation, she could ever
be happy with another, and for a moment wished
Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colo-
nel Brandon, reproved herself; felt that to his suf-
ferings and his constancy, far more than to his
rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished
anything rather than Mrs. Willoughby's death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton
had been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her
own previous alarm ; for so great was her uneasi-
ness about Marianne, that she had already deter-
mined to set out for Cleveland on that very day,
without waiting for any further intelligence, and
had so far settled her journey before his arrival
that the Careys were then expected every moment
to fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwill-
ing to take her where there might be infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day; and the
brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks
and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the
world. Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor
witness its proofs, without sometimes wondering
whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But
Mrs. Dashwood^ trusting to the temperate account

234 SENSE AND SENSIBILFTT.

of her own disappointment, which Elinor had sent
her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it. Marianne
wBfl restored to her, from a danger in which, as
she now began to feel, her own mistaken judg-
ment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment
to Willoughby had contributed to place her; and
in her recovery she had yet another source of joy,
unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to
her, as soon as any opportunity of private confer-
ence between them occurred.

'^At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do
not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon
loves Marianne; he has told me so himself.''

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and
pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent
attention.

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I
should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat
down to wish for any possible good to my family,
I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marry-
ing one of you, as the object most desirable; and I
believe Marianne will be the most happy with him
of the two."

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for
thinking so, because satisfied that none founded
on an impartial consideration of their age, charac-
ters, or feelings could be given; but her mother
must always be carried away by her imagination

SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT. 235

on any interesting subject; and therefore, instead
of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as
we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite
undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk
of nothing but my child; he could not conceal his
distress. I saw that it equalled my own; and he,
perhaps thinking that mere friendship, as the
world now goes, would not justify so warm a sym-
pathy, or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose,
giving way to irresistible feelings, made me ac-
quainted with his earnest, tender, constant affec-
tion for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor,
ever since the first moment of seeing her.''

Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the Ian*
guage, not the professions of Colonel Brandon,
but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned everything delight-
ful to her as it chose.

"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing any-
thing that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as
much more warm, as more sincere or constant,
whichever we are to call it, has subsisted through
all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy
prepossession for that worthless young man; and
without selfishness, without encouraging a hope,
could he have seen her happy with another I Such
a noble mind I such openness, such sincerity! Ko
one can be deceived in Am."

236 SENSE AND SENSIBILirr.

'' Colonel Brandon^s character," said Elinor,
^'as an excellent man, is well established."

'^1 know it iS|" replied her mother, seriously,
^^or, after such a warning, / should be the last to
encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
by it. But his coming for me, as he did, with
such active, such ready friendship, is enough to
prove him one of the worthiest of men."

"His character, however," answered Elinor,
"does not rest on one act of kindness, to which
his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of
the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs.
Jennings, to the Middlet^ns, he has been long and
intimately known: they equally love and respect
him; and even my own knowledge of him, though
lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly
do / value and esteem him, that if Marianne can
be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself
to think our connection the greatest blessing to
us in the world. What answer did you give him?
Did you allow him to hope?"

"Oh, my love I I could not then talk of hope
to him or to myself. Marianne might at that
moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope
or encouragement. His was an involuntary con-
fidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing
friend, not an application to a parent. Yet after
a time I did say, for at first I was quite overcome,
that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my

^^

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 287

greatest happiness would lie in promoting theii
marriage; and since our arriyal, since our delight-
ful security, I hare repeated it to him more fully,
have given him every encouragement in my power.
Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do every-
thing. Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for-
ever on such a man as Willoughby. His own
merits must soon secure it.''

" To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however,
you have not yet made him equally sanguine."

'' No. He thinks Marianne's affection too
deeply rooted for any change in it under a great
length of time ; and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe that with
such a difference of age and disposition he could
ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mis-
taken. His age is only so much beyond hers as to
be an advantage, as to make his character and
principles fixed; and his disposition, I am well
convinced, is exactly the very one to make your
sister happy. And his person, his manners, too,
are all in his favor. My partiality does not blind
me: he certainly is not so handsome aa Wil-
loughby, but at the same time there is some-
thing much more pleaaing in his countenance.
There was always a something, if you remember, in
Willoughby 's eyes at times which I did not like."

Elinor could not remember it ; but her motheri
without waiting for her assent, continued^ —

238 SENSE AND SENSIBUJIT.

^* And his mannen, the Colonel's manners^ an
not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby^s
ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
he more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their
gentleness, their genuine attention to other people,
and their manly unstudied simplicity are much
more accordant with her real disposition than
the liveliness, often artificial and often ill timed^
of the other. I am very sure myself that had
Willoughby turned out as really amiable as he has
proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet
never have been so happy with him as she will be
with Colonel Brandon."

She paused. Her daughter could not quite
agree with her; but her dissent was not heard,
and therefore gave no offence.

'<At Delaford she will be within an easy
distance of me," added Mrs. Dashwood, '^even if
I remain at Barton; and in all probability, — for I
hear it is a large village, — indeed there certainly
must be some small house or cottage close by,
that would suit us quite as well as our present
situation."

Poor Elinor I here was a new scheme for getting
her to Delaford; but her spirit was stubborn.

*^ His fortune too! — for at my time of life, yon
know, everybody cares about that; and though I
neither know nor desire to know what it really
isy I am sure it must be a good one."

^

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 239

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a
third person ; and Elinor withdrew t6 think it all
over in private^ to wish success to her friend^
and yet, in wishing it, to feel a P^ng lor
Willoughby.

CHAPTER XDL

Mariakne's illness^ though weakening in its
kind^ had not been long enough to make her
recovery slow; and with youth^ natural strength,
and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so
smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four
days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.
Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own
particular request, for she was impatient to pour
forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother,
Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion in entering the room, in seeing her
altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which
she immediately held out to him, was such as, in
Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something
more than his affection for Marianne, or the con-
sciousness of its being known to others ; and she
soon discovered, in his melancholy eye and vary-

m

ing complexion as he looked at her sister, the
probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery
to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged,
and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly
skin, the posture of re^clining weakness, and the
warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

SENSE AND SENSEBILITT. 241

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed
than her daughter, but with a mind rery differ-
ently influenced, and therefore watching to very
different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's
behavior but what arose from the most simple
and self-evident sensations, while in the actions
and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to
think that something more than gratitude already
dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne
growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs.
Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to
Barton. On her measures depended those of her
two friends : Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleve-
land during the Dash woods' stay; and Colonel
Brandon was soon brought, by their united request,
to consider his own abode there as equally deter-
minate, if not equally indispensable. At his and
Mrs. Jennings's united request, in return, Mrs.
Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of
his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel,
sA, the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and
Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her
friendly and hospitable for other people as well
as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it
by a visit at the cottage in the course of a few
weeks.

VOL. II. — 16

242 SENSE AKD SENSIBILITT.

The day of separation and departure arrived;
and Marianne, after taking so particular and
lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so ear-
nestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes
as seemed due to her own heart from a secret
acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
Colonel Brandon farewell with the cordiality of a
friend, was carefully assisted by him into the
carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she
should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor then followed, and the others were left by
themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their
own dulness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to
her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her
maid for the loss of her two young companions;
and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took
his solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and
Marianne bore her journey on both without essen-
tial fatigue. Everything that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care, could do to
render her comfortable, was the office of each
watchful companion, and each found their reward
in her bodily ease and her calmness of spirits.
To Elinor the observation of the latter was par-
ticularly grateful. She, who had seen her week
after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by
anguish of heart which she had neither courage to
speak of nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with m

SENSE Am) SENSIBILITT. 243

joy which no other could equally share, an appar*
ent composure of mind, which in being the result,
as she trusted, of serious reflection must eventu-
ally lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered
on scenes of which every field and every tree
brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away
her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing
through the window. But here Elinor could
neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as
she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she
had been crying, she saw only an emotion too
natural in itself to raise anything less tender than
pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.
In the whole of her subsequent manner she traced
the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable
exertion; for no sooner had they entered their
common sitting-room, than Marianne turned her
eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as
if determined at once to accustom herself to the
sight of every object with which the remembrance
of Willoughby could be connected. She said lit-
tle, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness ; and
though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never
passed away without the atonement of a smile.
After dinner she would try her pianoforte. She
went to it; but the music on which her eye first
rested was an opera, procured for her by Wil'

244 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

loughbj; containing some of their fayorite dnetsi
and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in
his handwriting. That would not do. She shook
her head, put the music aside, and after running
over the keys for a minute, complained of feeble-
ness in her fingers, and closed the instrument
again; declaring however with firmness, as she
did so, that she should in future practise much.

The next morning produced no abatement in
these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a
mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she
looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, an-
ticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and
talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and
cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a
wish.

''When the weather is settled, and I have re-
covered my strength," said she, ''we will take
long walks together every day. We will walk to
the farm at the edge of the down, and see hoV the
children go on; we will walk to Sir John's new
plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory,
and try to trace its foundations as far as we are
told they once reached. I know we ^hall be happy.
I know the summer will pass happily away. I
mean never to be later in rising than six, and
from that time till dinner I shall divide every

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 245

•

flMmettt bf tween music and reading. I have formed
mj plaoi and am determined to enter on a course
of serious study. Our own library is too well
known to me, to be resorted to for anything be-
yond mere amusement. But there are many works
well worth reading at the Park; and there are
others of more modem production, which I know
I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading
only six hours a day, I shall gain in the course of
a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction which I
now feel myself to want."

Elinotr honored her for a plan which originated
so nobly aa this; though smiling to see the same
eager fancy which had been leading her to the
extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining
now at work in introducing excess into a scheme
of such rational employment and virtuous self-
Qontrol. Her smile, however, changed to a sigh
when she remembered that her promise to Wil-
loughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had
that to communicate which might again unsettle
the mind of Marianne, and ruin, at least for a
time, this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Will-
ing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to
wait till her sister's health were more secure, be-
fore she appointed it. But the resolution was
made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home
before the weather was fine enough for an invalid

246 8EKSE AND SENSIBHITT.

like herself to yentore out. But at last a soft^
genial momiug appeared, such as might tempt
the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence;
and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was au-
thorized to walk as long as she could without
fatigue, in the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace slow as the feeble-
ness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried
since her illness required; and they had advanced
only so far beyond the house as to admit a full
view of the hill, the important hill behind, when,
pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne
calmly said, —

"There, exactly there," pointing with one
hand, "on that projecting mound, there I fell;
and there I first saw Willoughby."

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently
reviving she added, —

" I am thankful to find that I can look with so
little pain on the spot I Shall we ever talk on
that subject, Elinor?" hesitatingly it was said.
"Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I
hope, as I ought to do."

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done
with that, as far as Ae is concerned. I do not
mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been
for him, but what they are ntno. At present, if I
could be satisfied on one point, if I could be al-

SENSE AND SEKSIBILrrY. 247

lowed to think that he was not always acting a
part, not always deceiving me; but above all, if I
could be assured that he never was so very wicked
as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the
story of that unfortunate girl — ''

She stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her
words as she answered, —

^^ If you could be assured of that, you think you
should be easy?''

'^ Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in
it; for not only is it horrible to suspect a person
who has been what he has been to me of such
designs, but what must it make me appear to my-
self? What, in a situation like mine, but a most
shamefully unguarded affection could expose me
to — ''

"How, then," asked her sister, "would you
account for his behavior?"

" I would suppose him — oh, how gladly would
I suppose him only fickle, — very, very fickle."

Elinor said no more. She was debating within
herself on the eligibility of beginning her story
directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in
stronger health; and they crept on for a few
minutes in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said
Marianne at last, with a sigh, "when I wish his
secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than
my own. He will suffer enough in them."

^

248 SENSE AND SENSIBILirT.

f

" Do yon compare your conduct with his? "
"No. I compare it with what it ought to hay*
been; I compare it with yours.*'

'' Our situations have borne little resemblance."
" They have borne more than our conduct. Do
not, my dearest Elinor^ let your kindness defend
what I know your judgment must censure. My
illness has made me think. It has given me lei-
sure and calmness for serious recollection. Long
before I was enough recovered to talk, I was per-
fectly able to reflect. I considered the past : I saw
in my own behavior, since the beginning of our
acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a
series of imprudences towards myself, and want
of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings
had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of
fortitude under them had almost led me to the
grave. My illness I well knew had been entirely
brought on by myself, by such negligence of my
own health as I had felt, even at the time, to be
wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-
destruction. I did not know my danger till the
danger was removed; but with such feelings as
these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,
— wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to
live, to have time for atonement to my Ood and
to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died,
in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my
nurse, my friend, my sister I You, who hare seen

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 249 y

all the fretfal selfishness of my latter days^ who
had known all the murmurings of my heart! How
should I have lived in your remembrance! My
mother, too! How could you have consoled her!
I^cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.
Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some
duty neglected or some failing indulged. Every-
body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the
unceasing kindness, of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid
with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons,
the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common ac-
quaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust;
with a heart hardened against their merits, and a
temper irritated by their very attention. To John,
to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they deserve,
I had given less than their due. But you, you
above all, above my mother, had been wronged by
me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sor-
rows; yet to what did it influence me? — not to
any compassion that could benefit you or myself.
Your example was before me; but to what avail?
Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your
restraints by taking any part in those offices of
general complaisance or particular gratitude which
you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?
No; not less when I knew you to be unhappy
than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn
away from every exertion of duty or friendship ,*

250 8BNSE AND SENSIBILITT.

scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me,
regretting oi^ly that heart which had deserted and
wronged me^ and leaving jou, for whom I professed
an unbounded affectioui to be miserable for my
sake.'^

Here ceased the rapid flow oi her self-reproving
spirit; and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too
honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise
and support which her frankness and her contrition
so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and
replied, —

"You are very good. The future must be my
proof. I have laid down my plan; and if I am
capable of adhering to it, my feelings shall be
governed and my temper improved. They shall
no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I
shall now live solely for my family. Tou, my
mother, and Margaret must henceforth be all the
world to me; you will share my affections entirely
between you. From you, from my home, I shall
never again have the smallest incitement to move;
and if I do mix in other society, it will be only t<j
show that my spirit is humbled^ my heart amended,
and that I can practise the civilities, the lessei
duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As
for Willoughby, to say that I shall soon, or thai
I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His re*
membrance can be overcome by no change of cir.
eumstances or opinions. / But it shall be regulated

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 251

it shall be checked by religion, b^ reason, by
constant employment.''

She paused, and added in a lower voice, "If
I could but know his heart, everything would
become easy.''

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflect-
ing on the propriety or impropriety of speedily
hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
nearer decision than at first, heard this ; and per-
ceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution
must do all, soon found herself leading to the
fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with
address; prepared her anxious listener with cau-
tion; related simply and honestly the chief points
on which Willoughby grounded his apology ; did
justice to his repentance, and softened only his
protestations of present regard. Marianne said
not a word. She trembled : her eyes were fixed on
the gpround; and her lips became whiter than even
sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries
sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one. She caught every syllable with panting
eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself,
closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her
cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her to-
wards home ; and till they reached the door of the
cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity

252 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

must be, though no question was suffered to speak
it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their
conversation together; and was carefully minute in
every particular of speech and look, where minute-
ness could be safel}^ indulged. As soon as they
entered the house, Marianne, with a kiss of grati-
tude, and these two words just articulate through
her tears, *^Tell mamma," withdrew from her
sister, and walked slowly upstairs. Elinor would
not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as
what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously
prearranging its result, and a resolution of reviv-
ing the subject again, should Marianne fail to do
it, she turned into the parlor to fulfil her parting
injunction.

CHAPTER XX.

Mrs. Dashwood did not hear^ unmoved, the vin*
dication of her former favorite. She rejoiced in
his being cleared from some part of his imputed
guilt; she was sorry for him; she wished him
happy. But the feelings of the past could not be
recalled. Nothing could restore him with a faith
unbroken, a character unblemished, to Marianne.
^Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the
latter had sufiPered through his means, nor remove
the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing
could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem,
nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter:, heard
Willoughby's story from himself, — had she wit-
nessed his distress, and been under the influence
of his countenance and his manner, — it is prob-
able that her compassion would have been greater.
But it was neither in Elinor's power nor in her
wish to rouse such feelings in another, by her re-
tailed explanation, as had at first been called forth
in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her
judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Wil-
loughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to de-

264 SENSE AND SENSIBILITr.

clare only the simple truth, and lay open sneh
facts as were really due to his character, without
any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy
astray.

In the evening, when they were all three to-
gether, Marianne began voluntarily to speak of
him again; but that it was not without an effort,
the restless, unquiet thoughtf ultiess in which she
had been for some time previously sitting, her ris-
ing color, as she spoke, and her unsteady voice
plainly showed.

''I wish to assure you both," said she, ''that
I see everything as you can desire me to do."

Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her in-
stantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor,
who really wished to hear her sister's unbiassed
opinion, by an eager sign engaged her silence.
Marianne slowly continued : —

''It is a great relief to me, what Elinor told me
this morning; I have now heard exactly what I
wished to hear." For some moments her voice
was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and
with greater calmness than before: "I am now
perfectly satisfied; I wish for no change. I never
could have been happy with him, after knowing, aa
sooner or later I must have known, all this. I
should have had no confidence, no esteem. Noth-
ing could have done it away to my feelings."

"I know it| I know it," cried her mother.

SENSE Am) SENSIBILITT. 266

'^ Happy with a man of libertine practices! With
one who had so injured the peace of the dearest of
our friends and the best of men I No; my Mari-
anne has not a heart to be made happy with such a
man! Her conscience, her sensitive conscience,
would have felt all that the conscience of her hus-
band ought to have felt."

Marianne sighed, and repeated, '^ I wish for no
change.''

"You consider the matter,'' said Elinor, "ex-
actly as a g^d mind and a sound understanding
must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as
well as myself, not only in this but in many other
circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that
your marriage must have involved you in many
certain troubles and disappointments, in which
you would have been poorly supported by an affec-
tion on his side much less certain. Had you
miarried, you must have been always poor. His
ezpensiveness is acknowledged even by himself;
and his whole conduct declares that self-denial
is a word hardly understood by him. His de-*
mands and your inexperience together, on a
small, very small income, must have brought on
distresses which would not be the less grievous
to you, from having been entirely unknown and
unthought of before. Tour sense of honor and
honesty would have led you, I know, when aware
of your situation, to attempt all the economy that

266 SENSE AND SENSIBILTTT.

would appear to you possible; and perhaps^ as
long as your frugality retrenched only on your
own comfort, you might have been suffered to
practise it; but beyond that — and how little could
the utmost of your single management do to stop
the ruin which had begun before your marriage? —
beyond that, had you endeavored, however reason-
ably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be
feared that instead of prevailing on feelings so
selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened
your own influence on his heart, and made him
regret the connection which had involved him in
such difficulties? "

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the
word '^Selfish?" in a tone that implied, "Do
you really think him selfish? "

"The whole of his behavior,'^ replied Elinor,
"from the beginning to the end of the affair, has
been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness
which first made him sport with your affections;
which afterwards, when his own were engaged,
made him delay the confession of it, and which
finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoy-
ment or his own ease was, in every particular,
his ruling principle."

"It is very true. Mt/ happiness never was his
object.''

"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets
what he has done. And why does he regret it?

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 257

Because he finds it has not answered towards him-
self; it has not made him happy. His circum-
stances are now unembarrassed^ — he suffers from
no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he
has married a woman of a less amiable temper
than yourself. But does it thence follow that had
he married«you, he would have been happy? The
inconveniences would have been different. He
would then have suffered under the pecuniary dis-
tresses which, because they are removed, he now
reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife
of whose temper he could make no complaint, but
he would have been always necessitous, always
poor; and probably would soon have learned to
rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate
and good income as of far more importance, even
to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of
a wife."

'*I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne;
**and I have nothing to regret, — nothing but my
own folly."

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my
child," said Mrs. Dash wood; ^'she must be
answerable."

Marianne would not let her proceed; and Elinor,
satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to
avoid any survey of the past that might weaken
her sister's spirits; she therefore, pursuing the
first subject, immediately continued, —

VOL. II, — 17

258 SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.

^' One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn
from the whole of the story, — that all Wil-
loughby's difficulties have arisen from the first
offence against virtue, in his behavior to Eliza
Williams. That crime has been the origin of
every lesser one, and of all his present discontents."

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark;
and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of
Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as
friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her
daughter did not look, however, as if much of it
were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw, on
the two or three following days, that Marianne did
not continue to gain strength as she had done; but
while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still
tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could
safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again
all restored to each other^ again quietly settled at
the cottage ; and if not pursuing their usual studies
with quite so much vigor as when they first came
to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution
of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Ed- *
ward. She had heard nothing of him since her
leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing
certain even of his present abode. Some letters
had passed between her and her brother, in conse-

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 259

quence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of
John's there had been this sentence: '^We know
nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make
no inquiries on so prohibited a subject, but con-
clude him to be still at Oxford; " which was all
the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the
correspondence, for his name was not even men-
tioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was
not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of
his measures.

Their manservant had been sent one morning
to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at
table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress
as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
communication, —

<^ I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars
is married."

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes
upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back
in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose
eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had
intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked
to perceive, by Elinor's countenance, how much
she really suffered; and. in a moment afterwards,
alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew
not on which child Jx> bestow her principal
attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne
taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the

260 SENSE AND SBNSIBILITy.

maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood^s assistance,
supported her into the other room. By that time
Marianne was rather better; and her mother, leav-
ing her to the care of Margaret and the maid,
returned to Elinor, who, though still much dis-
ordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason
and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of
Thomas as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs.
Dash wood immediately took all that trouble on
herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the infor-
mation without the exertion of seeking it.

''Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married,
Thomas? *'

''I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morn-
ing in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as
was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door
of the New London Inn, as I went there with a
message from Sally at the Park to her brother,
who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look
up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it
was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my
hat, and she knew me and called to me, and in-
quired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, es-
pecially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give
her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's, their best
compliments and service, and how sorry they was
they had not time to come on and see you; but
they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they
was going further dojyn for a little while, but how-

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 261

ever when they come back, they 'd make sure to
come and see you."

**But did she tell you she was married,
Thomas? "

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she
had changed her name since she was in these
parts. She was always a very affable and free-
spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. So,
I made free to wish her joy.''

** Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her? "
'^ Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it,
but he did not look up ; he never was a gentleman
much for talking."

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not
putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dash wood prob-
ably found the same explanation.

*' Was there no one else in the carriage? "
*'No, ma'am, only they too."
^*Do you know where they came from? "
"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy
— Mrs. Ferrars told me."

** And are going farther westward? "
"Yes, ma'am, — but not to bide long. They
will soon be back again, and then they 'd be sure
and call here."

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but
Elinor knew better than to expect them. She rec-
ognized the whole of Lucy in the message, and was
very confident that Edward would never come near

262 SENSE AND SENSIBILnT.

them. She observed in a low yoice^ to her mother,
that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's,
near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor
looked as if she wished to hear more.

'' Did you see them ofiE, before you came away? ''

^^ No, ma'am, — the horses was just coming out,
but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of
being late.''

^'Did Mrs. Perrars look well? ''

^^ Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well;
and to my mind she was always a very handsome
young lady, — and she seemed vastly contented."

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question;
and Thomas and the table-cloth, now alike need-
less, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne
had already sent to say that she should eat nothing
more. Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites
were equally lost; and Margaret might think her-
self very well off that, with so much uneasiness as
both her sisters had lately experienced, so much
reason as they had often had to be careless of their
meals, she had never been obliged to go without
her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged^
and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by them-
selves, they remained long together in a similarity
of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood
feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 265

seeing her mother's servant, — on hearing Lucy's
message I

Thej would soon, she supposed, be settled at
Delaford, — Delaford, that place in which so
much conspired to give her an interest; which she
wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to
avoid. She saw them in an instant in their
parsonage-house: saw in Lucy the active, contriv-
ing manager; uniting at once a desire of smart
appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed
to be suspected of half her economical practices;
pursuing her own interest in every thought; court-
ing the favor of Colonel Braudon, of Mrs. Jennings,
and of every wealthy friend. In Edward she
knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to
see. Happy or unhappy, nothing pleased her;
she turned away her head from every sketch of
him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their
connections in London would write to them to
announce the event, and give further particulars ;
but day after day passed off, and brought no letter,
no tidings. Though uncertain that any one were
to blame, she found fault with every absent friend;
they were all thoughtless or indolent.

*'When do you write to Colonel Brandon,
ma'am? " was an inquiry which sprung from the
impatience of her mind to have something going
on.

266 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT.

''I wrote to him, my love, last week, and
rather expect to gee than to hear from him again.
I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should
not be surprised to see him walk in to-day, or
to-morrow, or any day."

This was gaining something, — something to
look forward to. Colonel Brandon mitst have
some information to give*

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the
figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the
window. He stopped at their gate. It was a
gentleman, — it was Colonel Brandon himself.
Now she should hear more, and she trembled in
expectation of it. But it was not Colonel Bran-
don; neither his air, nor his height. Were it
possible, she should say it must be Edward. She
looked again. He had just dismounted; she could
not be mistaken, — it was Edward. She moved
away and sat down. ^' He comes from Mr. Pratt's
purposely to see us. I will be calm, — I taill be
mistress of myself."

In a moment she perceived that the others were
likewise aware of the mistake. She aaw her
mother and Marianne change color, — saw them
look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to
each other. She would have given the world to
be able to speak, and to make them understand
that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would
appear in their behavior to him; but she had nc

8KNSE AND SSNSIBILITT. 267

utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their
own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited
in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His
footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a
moment he was in the passage, and in another he
was before them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was
not too happy, even for Elinor. His complexion
was white with agitation ; and he looked as if fear-
ful of his reception, and conscious that he merited
no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however, conform-
ing, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter
by whom she then meant, in the warmth of her
heart, to be guided in everything, met him with a
look of forced complacency, gave him her hand,
and wished him joy.

He colored, and stammered out an unintelligible
reply. Elinor's lips had moved with her mother's;
and when the moment of action was over, she
wished that she had shaken hands with him too.
But it was then too late ; and with a countenance
meaning to be open, she sat down again, and
talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out
of sight, to conceal her distres9; and Margaret,
understanding some part, but not the whole of the
case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified,
and therefore took a seat as far from him as she
oould, and maintained a strict silence.

268 SENSE AND SENSIBIUTr.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness
of the season, a very awful pause took place. It
was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt
obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very
well. In a hurried manner he replied in the
affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor, resolving to exert herself, though fearing
the sound of her own voice, now said, —

^' Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple? "

<' At Longstaple! '^ he replied, with an air of
surprise. ^^No; my mother is in town."

<<I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work
from the table, ^Ho inquire after Mrs. Edward
Ferrars."

She dared not look up; but her mother and
Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He
colored, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and
after some hesitation said, —

^^ Perhaps you mean my brother: you mean
Mrs. — Mrs. Robert Ferrars."

'^ Mrs. Robert Ferrars ! " was repeated by Mari-
anne and her mother in an accent of the utmost
amazement; and though Elinor could not speak,
even her eyes were fixed on him with the same
impatient wonder. He rose from his seat and
walked to the window, apparently from not know-
ing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay
there; and while spoiling both them and their

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 269

sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke,
said, in a hurried voice, —

"Perhaps you do not know: you may not have
heard that my brother is lately married to — to the
• youngest — to Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable aston-
ishment by all but Elinor, who sat, with her head
leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation
as made her hardly know where she was.

* ' Yes, ' ' said he ; " they were married last week,
and are now at Dawlish."

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran
out of the room; and as soon as the door was
closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she
thought would never cease. Edward, who had till
then looked anywhere rather than at her, saw her
hurry away, and perhaps saw or even heard her
emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a
reverie which no remarks, no inquiries, -no affec-
tionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate ;
and at last, without saying a word, quitted the
room, and walked out towards the village, leaving
the others in the greatest astonishment and per-
plexity on a change in his situation so wonderful
and so sudden, — a perplexity which they had no
means of lessening but by their own conjectures.

CHAFTEB XXn.

UNAocouirrABLB, however, as the circamstancM
of his release might appear to the whole family, it
was certain that Edward was free; and to what
purpose that freedom would be employed was
easily predetermined by all, — for after experi-
encing the blessings of one imprudent engagement,
contracted without his mother's consent, as he had
already done for more than four years, nothing
less could be expected of him, in the failure of thtU,
than the immediate contraction of another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one.
It was only to ask Elinor to marry him ; and con-
sidering that he was not altogether inexperienced
in such a question, it might be strange that he
should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as
he really did, so much in need of encouragement
and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the
proper resolution, however, how soon an opportu-
nity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he
expressed himself, and how he was received, need
not be particularly told. This only need be said:
that when they all sat down to table at four

8BNSE AND SEKSIBILITJ. 271

o'eleck, aWut three hours after bis arrival^ he had
secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent,
and was Aot only in the rapturous profession of the
lover, but| in the reality of reason and truth, one
of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was
more than commonly joyful. He had more than
the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his
heart and raise his spirits. He was released^
without any reproach to himself, from an entangle-
ment which had long formed his misery, from a
woman whom he had long ceased to love; and ele-
vated at once to that security with another which
he must have thought of almost with despair, as
soon as he had learned to consider it with desire.
He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but
from misery to happiness; and the change was
openly spoken in such a gei^uine, flowing, grateful
cheerfulness as his friends had never witnessed
in him before.

His heart was now open to Elinor; all its weak-
nesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish
attachment to Lucy treated with all the philo-
sophic dignity of twenty-four.

'^ It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,"
said he, ^^the consequence of ignorance of the
world, and want of employment. Had my mother
given me some active profession when I was re-
moved at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I
think, nay, I am sure, it would never have hap-

272 SENSE AND SENSmiLITT.

pened; for thougli I left Longstaple witb what I
thought at the time a most unconquerable prefer-
ence for his niece, yet had I then had any pur&
suit, any object to engage my time and keep me at
a distance from her for a few months, I should
very soon bave outgrown the fancied attachment,
especially by mixing more with the world, as in
such a case I must have done. But instead of hav-
ing anything to do, instead of having any pro-
fession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose
any myself, I returned home to be completely idle;
and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not
even the. nominal employment which belonging
to the university would have given me, for I was ^
not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had
therefore nothing in the world to do but to fancy
myself iii love; and as my mother did not make
my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no
friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked
new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to
be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt
myself at home, and was always sure of a wel-
come ; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of
my time there from eighteen to nineteen. Lucy
appeared everything that was amiable and oblig-
ing. She was pretty too, — at least I thought so
then; and I had seen so little of other women that
I could make no comparisons and see no defects.
Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 273

as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in
every way been proved, it was not at the time an
unnataral or an inexcusable piece of folly."

The change which a few hours had wrought in
the minds and the happiness of the Dashwood?
was such — so great — as promised them all th^
satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood,
too happy to be comfortable^ knew not how to love
Edward nor praise Elinor enough, how to be
enough thankful for his release without wounding
his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure
for unrestrained conversation together, and yet
enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of
both.

Marianne could speak her happiness only by
tears. Comparisons would occur, regrets would
arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for
her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits
nor language.

But Elinor, — how are her feelings to be de^
scribed? From the moment of learning that Lucy
was married to another, that Edward was free, to
the moment of his justifying the hopes which had
80 instantly followed, she was everything by
turns but tranquil. But when the second moment
had passed; when she found every doubt, every
solicitude removed, compared her situation with
what so lately it had been, saw him honorably
released from his former engagement, saw him

▼OL. II. — 18

274 SENSE AND SENSIBILriT.

instantly profiting by the release, to address her*
self and declare an affection as tender, as constant
as she had ever supposed it to be, — she was op-
pressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;
and happily disposed as is the human mind to be
easily familiarized with any change for the better,
it required several hours to give sedateness to her
spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for
a week; for whatever other claims might be made
on him, it was impossible that less than a week
should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's
company, or suffice to say half that was to be said
of the past, the present, and the future; for though
a very few hours spent in the hard labor of inces-
sant talking will despatch more subjects than can
really be in common between any two rational
creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between
them no subject is finished, no communication is
even made, till it has been made at least twenty
times over.

Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable
wonder among them all, formed of course one of
the earliest discussions of the lovers; and Elinor's
particular knowledge of each party made it appear
to her, in every view, as one of the most extraor-
dinary and unaccountable circumstances she had
ever heard. How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on

SENSB Am) SSNSIBIIJTT. 97|S

to marry a girl of whose beauty she had herself
heard him speak without any admiration, — a girl,
too, already engaged to his brother, and on whose
account that brother had been thrown off by his
family, — it was beyond her comprehension to
make out. ^To her own heart it was a delight-
ful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridicu-
lous one; but to her reason, her judgment, it was
completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by
supposing that perhaps, at first accidentally meet-
ing, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other as to lead by
degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what
Kobert had told her in Harley Street, of his opin-
ion of what his own mediation in his brother's
affairs might have done, if applied to in time.
She repeated it to Edward.

^^ That was exactly like Kobert," was his im-
mediate observation; ^^ and that,** he presently
added, ^^ might perhaps be in hu head when the
acquaintance between them first began. And
Lucy, perhaps, at first might think only of pro-
curing his good offices in my favor. Other designs
might afterwards asise.''

How long it had been carrying on between
them, however, he was equally at a loss with her-
self to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
remained by choice ever since his quitting Lon*

276 SENSE AND SENSIBILIT7.

don, he had had no means of hearing of her but
from herself, and her letters to the very last were
neither less frequent nor less affectionate than
usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had
ever occurred to prepare him for what followed;
and when at last it burst on him in a letter from
Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he be-
lieved, half stupefied between the wonder, the
horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put
the letter into Elinor's hands.

Dear Sir, — Being very sure I have long lost your
affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my
own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy
with him as I once used to think I might be with you ;
but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was an-
other's. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it
shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends,
as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely
say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too
generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has
gained my affections entirely; and as we could not live
without one another, we are just returned from the altar,
and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks;
which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,
but thought I would first trouble you with these few
lines, and shall always remain

Your sincere wellwisher, friend, and sister,

Lucy Ferrars.

I have burned all your letters, and will return your
picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my
scrawls; but the ring with my hair you are very wel-
come to keep.

SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT. 277

Elinor read and returned it without any
comment.

'^ I will not ask your opinion of it as a compo-
sition," said Edward. " For worlds would not I
haye had a letter of hers seen by you in former
days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife !
How I have blushed over the pages of her writing!
and I believe I may say that since the first half
year of our foolish business this is the only letter
I ever received from her of which the substance
made me any amends for the defect of the style."

"However it may have come about," said Eli-
nor, after a pause, "they are certainly married;
and your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment. The independence she
settled on Bobert, through resentment against
you, has put it in his power to make his own
choice ; and she has actually been bribing one son
with a thousand a year to do the very deed which
she disinherited the other for intending to do.
She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by
Kobert's marrying Lucy, than she would have
been by your marrying her."

"She will be more hurt by it, for Kobert al-
ways was her favorite. She will be more hurt by
it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner."

In what state the affair stood at present between
them Edward knew not, for no communication

tn SENSE AND SENSIBUJIT.

with sny of his family had yet been attempted by
him. He had quitted Oxford within four-and-
twenty hours after Lucy's letter arriyed, and with
only one object before him, the nearest road to
Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of
condnct with which that road did not hold the
most intimate connection. He could do nothing
till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dash-
wood; and by his rapidity in seeking thai fate, it
is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which
he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of
the modesty with which he rated his own deserts,
and the politeness with which he talked of his
doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very
9mel reception. It 9M his business, however,
to say that he did, and he said it very prettily.
What he might say on the subject a twelyemonth
after must be referred to the imagination of hus-
bands and wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go
off with a flourish of malice against him in her
message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor;
and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened
on her character, had no scruple in believing her
capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-
nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to
her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of
her opinions, they had been equally imputed by

SENSE AKD SENSIBILITT. 279

him to her want of education; and till her last
letter reached him, he had always helieved her
to he a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and
thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing hut
such a persuasion could hare prevented his put-
ting an end to an engagement which, long hefore
the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's
anger, had heen a continual source of disquiet and
regret to him.

"I thought it my duty," said he, "indepen-
dent of my feelings, to give her the option of
continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced hy my mother, and stood to all appear-
ance without a friend in the world to assist me.
In such a situation as thitt, where there seemed
nothing to tempt the avarice or the» vanity of any
living creature, how could I suppose, when she so
earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate,
whatever it might he, that anything but the most
disinterested affection was her inducement ? And
even now> I cannot comprehend on what motive
she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be
to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had
not the smallest Regard, and who had only two
thousand pounds in the world. She could not
foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a
living." \

"No; but she might suppose that something
would occur in your favor, — that your own family

280 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost
nothing hy continuing the engagement, for she
has proved that it fettered neither her inclination
nor her actions. The connection was c^ainly a
respectahle one, and prohahly gained her consider-
ation among her friends ; and if nothing more ad-
vantageous occurred, it would he hetter for her to
marry you than he single."

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced
that nothing could have heen more natural than
Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the mo-
tive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always
scold the imprudence which compliments them-
selves, for having spent so much time with them
at Norland, when he must have felt his own
inconstancy.

''Your hehavior was certainly very wrong,''
said she, "because, to say nothing of my own con-
viction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect what, as you were then situated^
could never be."

He could only plead an ignorance of his own
heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of
his engagement.

"I was simple enough to think that because
mj faith was plighted to another, there could be
no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 281

heart as safe and sacred as my honor. I felt that
I admired you, hut I told myself it was only
friendship; and till I hegan to make comparisons
hetween yourself and Lucy, I did not know how
far I was got. After that, I suppose, I wets wrong
in remaining so much in Sussex; and the argu-
ments with which I reconciled myself to the ex-
pediency of it were no hetter than these: The
danger is my own; I am doing no injury to any-
hody hut myself."

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Bran-
don's heing expected at the cottage, as he really
wished not only to he hetter acquainted with him,
hut to have an opportunity of convincing him that
he no longer resented his giving him the living at
Delaford; *' which at present," said he, "after
thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on
the occasion, he must think I have never forgiven
him for offering."

Now he. felt astonished himself that he had
never yet heen to the place. But so little interest
had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his
knowledge of the house, garden, and glehe, extent
of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of
the tithes to Elinor herself, who had heard so
much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it
with so much attention, as to he entirely mistress
of the suhject.

282 SENSE AND SENSIBILITT.

One question after this only renuuned undecided
between them; one difiBculty only was to be oyer-
come. They were brought together by mutual af-
fection, with the warmest approbation of their real
friends; their intimate knowledge of each other
seemed to make their happiness certain, and they
only wanted something to live upon. Edward had
two thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with
Delaford liring, was all that they could call their
own; for it was impossible that Mrs. Dash wood
should advance anything; (and they were neither
of them quite enough in love to think that three
hundred and fifty pounds a year would supply
them with the comforts of life.^

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some
favorable change in his mother towards him; and
on that he rested for the residue of their income.
But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Ed-
ward would still be unable to marry Miss Morton,
and his choosing herself had been spoken of in
Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser
evil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that
Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than
to enrich Fanny.

About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel
Brandon appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood's
satisfaction, and to g^ve her the dignity of having,
for the first time since her living at Barton, more
company with her than her house would hold.

SENSE AND SENSIBILITT. 283

Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first
corner^ and Colonel Brandon therefore walked
every night to his old quarters at the Park; from
whence he usually returned in the morning, early
enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete
before breakfast.

A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in
his evening hours at least, he had little to do but
to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six
and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper
of mind which needed all the improvement in
Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome,
and all the encouragement of her mother's lan-
guage to make it cheerful. Among such friends,
however, and such flattery, he did revive. No
rumor of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:
he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first
hours of his visit were consequently spent in
hearing and in wondering. Everything was ex-
plained to him by Mrs. Dashwood; and he found
fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr.
Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest
of Elinor.

It would be needless to say that the gentlemen
advanced in the good opinion of each other, as
they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for
it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in
good principles and good sense, in disposition and
manner of thinking, would probably have been

284 SENSE Aia> SEKSIBILirr.

Bufficient to unite them in friendship, without any
other attraction; hut their being in lore with two
sisters, and two sisters fond of each other,^ made
that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
which might otherwise have waited the effect of
time and judgment.

The letters from town, which a few days before
would have made every nerve in Elinor's body
thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with
less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to
tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indig-
nation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her
compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who she
was sure had quite doted upon the worthless
hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost
broken-hearted at Oxford.

" I do think," she continued, " nothing was ever car-
ried on 80 sly; for it was but two days before Lucy
called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul
suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who,
poor soul I came crying to me the day after, in a great
fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing
how to get to Plymouth ; for Lucy, it seems, borrowed
all her money before she went off to be married, on pur-
pose, we suppose, to make a show with, and poor Nancy
had not seven shillings in the world ; so I was very glad
to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter,
where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with
Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the
Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness
not to take her along with them in the chaise is worse

SSKSK AND SBNSIBILITT. 285

than all. "Poor Mr. Edward 1 I cannot get him out of
my head ; bat yoa must send for him to Barton, and
Miss Marianne mast try to comfort him."

Mr. Dashwood's sj^rains were more solemn.
Mrs. Ferrara was the most unfortunate of womeui
poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility;
and he considered the existence of each, under
such a bloWy with grateful wonder. Kobert's
offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infi-
nitely worse. Neither of them was ever again to
be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even if she
might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his
wife should never be acknowledged as her daugh-
ter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence.
The secrecy with which everything had been car-
ried on between"^ them was rationally treated as
enormously heightening the crime, because had
any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper
measures would have been taken to prevent the
marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with
him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with
Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that
she should thus be the means of spreading misery
further in the family. He thus continued : —

"Mrs. Ferrars has never ji^et mentioned Edward's
name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great
astonishment, not a line has been received from him on
the occasion. Perhaps, however, h^e is kept silent by
his fear of offending ; and I shall therefore give him a

286 SENSE AND SENSIBILmr.

hint, by a line to Oxford, that liis titter and I both think
a letter of proper submission from him, addressed per-
haps to Fanny, and by her shown to her mother, might
not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of
Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so
much as to be on good terms with her children."

This paragraph was of some importance to the
prospects and conduct of Edward. It determined
him to attempt a reconciliation, though not ex-
actly in the manner pointed out by their brother
and sister.

'< A letter of proper submission! " repeated he;
** would they have me beg my mother's pardon for
Robert's ingratitude to her, and breach of honor
to me ? I can make no submissio^. I am grown
neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.
I am grown very happy; but that would not inter-
est. I know of no submission that it proper for
me to make.'' ^

"You may certainly ask to Jhe forgiven," said
Elinor, '^because you have oflended; and I should
think you might now venture so far as to profess
some concern for having eyer formed the engage-
ment which drew on you your mother's anger."

He agreed that he mi^ht.

"And when she h«is forgiven you, perhaps a
little humility may he convenient while acknowl-
edging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
in ?ier eyes as t^e first. '^

SENSE AND SENSIBUJTT. 287

He had nothing to urge against it, hut still re*
sisted the idea of a letter of proper suhmission ; and
therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared
a much greater willingness to make mean conces-
sions hy word of mouth than on paper, it was re-
solved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he
should go to London, and personally entreat her
good offices in his favor. ''And if they really do
interest themselves," said Marianne, in her new
character of candor, ''in hringing about a recon-
ciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny
are not entirely without merit."

After a visit on.Cclonel Brandon's side of only
three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted Bar-
ton together. They were to go immediately to
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal
knowledge of his future home, and assist his
patron and friend in deciding on what improve-
ments were needed to it; and from thence, after
staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed
on his journey to town.

CHAPTER XXni.

After a proper resistance on tlie part of Mrs.
Ferrars, just so violent and so steady aa to pre-
serve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being
too amiable, Edward was admitted to her presence
and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctu-
ating. For many years of her life she had had two
sons : but the crime and annihilation of Edward a
few weeks ago had robbed her of one ; the similar
annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight
without any; and now, by the resuscitation of
Edward, she had one again.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live,
however, he did not feel the continuance of his
existence secure till he had revealed his present
engagement; for the publication of that circum-
stance, he feared, might give a sudden turn to his
constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as be-
fore. With apprehensive caution, therefore, it
was revealed; and he was listened to with unex-
pected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at first reasonably
endeavored to dissuade him from marrying Miss

SENSE AND SENSIBIUTT. 289

Dashwood) by every argument in her power; told
him that in Miss Morton he would have a woman
of higher rank and larger fortune; and enforced
the assertion by observing that Miss Morton was
the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand
pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the daugh-
ter of a private gentleman with no more than
three ; but when she found that, though perfectly
admitting the truth of her representation, he was
by no means inclined to be guided by it, she
judged it wisest, from the experience of the past,
to submit; and therefore, after such an ungracious
delay as she owed to her own* dignity, and as
served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she
issued her decree of consent to the marriage of
Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augment-
ing their income was next to be considered; and
here it plainly appeared that though Edward was
now her only son, he was by no means her eldest :
for while Kobert was inevitably endowed with a
thousand pounds a year, not the smallest objection
was made against Edward's taking orders for the
sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor
was anything promised either for the present oi
in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds which
had been given with Fanny.

It was as much^ however, as was desired, and
more than was expected, by Edward and Elinor;

VOL. u. — 19

290 SENSE AUD SEHSIBILriT.

and Mrs. Ferran henelfi by her shuffling excnsety
seemed the only person surprised at her not giving
more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants
thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for
after Edward was in possession of the living but
the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Bran-
don, with an eager desire for the accommodation
of Elinor, was making considerable improvements;
and after waiting some time for their completion,
— after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disap-
pointments and delays, from the unaccountable
dilatoriness of the workmen, — Elinor, as usual,
broke through the first positive resolution of not
marrying till everything was ready; and the
ceremony took place in Barton church early in
the autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent
with their friend at the mansion-house, from
whence they could superintend the progress of the
parsonage, and direct eveiything as they liked on
the spot; could choose papers, project shrubberies,
and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings's prophecies,
though rather jumbled together, were chiefiy ful-
filled; for she was able to visit Edward and his
wife in their parsonage by Michaelmas; and she
found in Elinor and her husband, as she really be-
lieved, one of the happiest couples in the world.
They had, in fact, nothing to wish for, but the

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 291

marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and
rather better pasturage for their cows.

They were visited on their first settling by al-
most all their relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrara
came to inspect the happiness which she was al-
most ashamed of having authorized; and even the
Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from
Sussex to do them honor.

'^ I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear
sister/' said John, as they were walking together
one morning before the gates of Delaford House,
^^that would be saying too much; for certainly
you have been one of the most fortunate young
women in the world, as it is. But I confess it
would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Bran-
don brother. His property here, his place, his
house, — everything in such respectable and excel*
lent condition I And his woods, •— I have not seen
such timber anywhere in Dorsetshire as there is now
standing in Delaford Hanger! And though, per-
haps, Marianne may not seem exactly the person to
attract him, yet I think it would altogether be ad-
visable for you to have them now frequently staying
with you; for as Colonel Brandon seems a great
deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen ;
for when people are much thrown together, and
see little of anybody else, — and it will always be
in your power to set her off to advantage, and so
forth. In short, you may as well give hev &
chance: you understand me.''

292 SENSE AND SENSIBILTIT.

But though Mrs. Ferrars did come to see them,
and always treated them with the make-believe of
decent affection^ they were never insulted by her
real favor and preference. Thai was due to the
folly of Bobert, and the cunning of his wife ; and
it was earned by them before many months had
passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter,
which had at first drawn Kobert into the scrape,
was the principal instrument of his deliverance
from it ; for her respectful humility, assiduous at-
tentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the
smallest opening was given for their exercise,
reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and re-
established him completely in her favor.

The whole of Lucy's behavior in the affair, and
the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may
be held forth as a most encouraging instance of
what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-
interest, however its progress may be apparently
obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of
fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time
and conscience. When Eobert first sought her ac-
quaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's
Buildings, it was only with the view imputed to
him by his brother. He merely meant to per-
suade her to give up the engagement; and as
there could be nothing to overcome but the affec-
tion of both, he naturally expected tiiat one or two
interviews would settle the matter. In that point,

SENSE Am> SENSIBILITT. 293

however^ and that only, he erred; for though Lucy
soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would con-
vince her in time, another visit, another conversa-
tion! was always wanted to produce this conviction.
Some douhts always lingered in her mind when
they parted, which could only be removed by an-
other half hour's discourse with himself. His at-
tendance was by this means secured, and the rest
followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward,
they came gradually to talk only of Robert, — a
subject on which he had always more to say than
on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an
interest even equal to his own; and, in short, it
became speedily evident to both, that he had en-
tirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of
his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very
proud of marrying privately without his mother's
consent. What immediately followed is known.
They passed some months in great happiness at
Dawlish, — for she had many relations and old ac-
quaintance to cut, and he drew several plans for
magnificent cottages; and from thence returning
to town procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Eerrars,
by the simple expedient of asking it, which, at
Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The forgive-
ness at first, indeed, as was reasonable, compre^
handed only Kobert; and Lucy, who had owed his
mother no duty, and therefore could have trans-
gressed none, still remained some weeks longer

294 SENSE AND SENSIBUJIT.

unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of
conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for
Bobert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness
she was treated with, procured her in time the
haughty notice which overcame her by its gracious-
ness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees,
to the highest state of affection and influence.
Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars as either
Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never
cordially forgiven for having once intended to
marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in
fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder,
she was in everything considered, and always
openly acknowledged, to be a favorite child. They
settled in town, received very liberal assistance
from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imagi-
nable with the Dashwoods; and, setting aside the
jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting be-
tween Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands
of course took a part, as well as the fiequent do-
mestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy
themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in
which they all lived together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of
eldest son might have puzzled many people to find
out, and what Robert had done to succeed to it
might have puzzled them still more. It was an
arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if
not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. 296

Robert's style of living or of talking to give a sus-
picion of his regretting the extent of his income,
as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing
himself too much; and if Edward might be judged
from the ready discharge of his duties in every
particular, from an increasing attachment to his
wife and his home, and from the regular cheerful-
ness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less
contented with his lot, no less free from every
wish of an exchange.

Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her
family as could well be contrived, without render-
ing the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her
mother and sisters spent much more than half
their time with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting
on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the fre-
quency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of
bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together
was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal
than what John had expressed. It was now her
darling object. Precious as was the company of
her daughter to her, she desired nothing so much
as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued
friend; and to see Marianne settled at the man-
sion-house was equally the wish of Edward and
Elinor. They each felt his sorrows and their own
obligations, and Marianne, by general consent,
was to be the reward of all.

With such a confederacy against her, — with a

w

j6 sense AJSD SENSIBIUTr.

knowledge so intimate of his goodness^ — witk m
conviction of his fond attachment to heiself, which
at last, though long after it was obseryahle to
everyhodj else, burst on her, — what could she
do?

Marianne Dashwood was bom to an extraordi-
nary fate. She was bom to discoyer the falsehood
of her own opinions, and to counteract by her con-
duet her most favorite maxims. She was bom to
overcome an affection formed so late in life as
at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to
strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to
give her hand to another! — and that other a man
who had suffered no less than herself under the
event of a former attachment, whom, two years
before, she had considered too old to be married,
and who still sought the constitutional safeguard
of a flannel waistcoat!

But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to
an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flat-
tered herself with expecting, instead of remaining
even forever with her- mother, and finding her only
pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in
her more calm and sober judgment she had deter-
mined on,. — she found herself at nineteen submit-
ting to new attachments, entering on new duties,
placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a
family, and the patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy as all those

8BKSE AND SBNSIBILITT. 297

who best loved him believed he deserved to be; in
Marianne he was consoled for eveiy past afflic-
tion: her regard and her society restored his
mind to animation, and his spirits to cheeiful*
ness; and that Marianne found her own happi*
ness in forming his^ was equally the persuasion
and delight of each observing friend. Marianne
could never love by halves; and her whole heart

became, \^ J:iTP*^i ^ rnnoh <^ftYft(.fi(j tft l^fiT LiidKi^Ti/1

mi id had onin biwu tu Wllluughlfy.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage
without a pang; and his punishment was soon
afterwards completci in the voluntary forgiveness
of Mrs. Smithy who, by stating his marriage with
a woman of character as the source of her clemencyi
gave him reason for believing that had he behaved
with honor towards Marianne he might at once
have been happy and rich. That his repentance
of misconduct, which thus brought its own punish-
ment, was sincere, need not be doubted; nor that
he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy,
and of Marianne with regret. But that he was
forever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or
contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died
of a broken heartr, must not be depended on, — for
he did neither. VHe lived to exert, and frequently
to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of
humor, nor his home always uncomfortable; and
in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting

O-

0-

^ \

298 SENSE AND SEKSIBILITT.

of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree
of domestic felicity.

For Marianne^ however; in spite of his incivility
in surviving her loss^ he always retained that de-
cided regard which interested him in everything
that befell her, and made her his secret standard
of perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty
would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing
no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.

Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain
at the cottage without attempting a removal to
Delaford; and, fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
JenningSi when Marianne was taken from them,
Margaret had reached an age highly suitable for
dancing; and not very ineligible for being sup*
posed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford there was that
constant communication which strong family affec*
tion would naturally dictate; and among the mer-
its and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let
it not be ranked as the least considerable, that,
though sisters, and living almost within sight of
each other, they could live without disagreement
between themselves, or producing coolness between
their husbands.

THE ElOk

0

^1^

»■

S

r

f